


Three Cigarettes In An Ashtray

by MyBloodyUnicorn



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: 1950s, Alternate Universe - 1950s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Bisexual James T. Kirk, Complete, F/M, M/M, New York City, Not Canon Compliant, Priest Kink, Roman Catholicism, Slow Burn, Social Anxiety, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2018-05-24
Packaged: 2019-04-30 19:17:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 36
Words: 104,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14503737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyBloodyUnicorn/pseuds/MyBloodyUnicorn
Summary: [alternate title: This Is Always]I'm giving this back to the fans I wrote it for originally, which means changing all the names back to the characters they were based on -- if you catch any inconsistencies/errors, please let me know!





	1. Carol

She thinks how easy it would be to just give up.

Carol jots down a last note, the date for the final exam, and closes her notebook. She buttons up her coat and finds room in her overstuffed satchel for her textbooks.

_Right now, right this minute,_ she thinks. _I could quit._ Walk out of this lecture hall, straight through the wrought-iron Columbia gates, and just go home. No more worrying about thesis writing or long-term plans or graduation. Go home, like all her friends, like everyone else.

The 1958 spring semester began with five girls, but now, her classmates were almost all men, except for her and the other girl, whose name Carol never learned. The girl always has her hair in a lank ponytail and a red fringe of acne along her jaw. Sometimes Carol wishes they were friends. They could study together, she thinks, and perhaps when they were done, she would tell the girl she could be pretty, if she just tried a little harder. She imagines the two of them squeezed into Carol’s tiny bathroom, their heads nearly touching, while Carol delicately applies makeup to the girl’s skin. 

_There,_ Carol would say. _Now you’re beautiful._

A group of students clusters by the door and she watches the nameless girl push herself in among them. The girl asks about study sessions and they all discuss when and where they could meet. Carol pulls on her gloves as she walks out, looking at her hands rather than at any of her classmates. It’s easier, she finds, to simply not look. She murmurs a quiet _excuse me, please,_ to the people by the door and they open a path before her without saying a word.

 

#

 

Outside, she buys a coffee from a sidewalk cart and stands there for a moment, unsure what to do. She starts walking toward the market to pick up tonight’s dinner, planning the meal as she walks. _I should cook those pork chops or they’ll spoil,_ she thinks. _I can’t afford to go back to the butcher’s again this week._

But when she reaches the market, she decides to keep walking, at least until her coffee’s finished. After that, she’ll go into the market, go home, start dinner, and hopefully have time to study while it cooked. She just wants a little more time to think.

_You think too much, sweetheart_ , Jim once told her. _You’re going to wind up neurotic_.

At the next corner, she drains the dregs of the coffee and drops the empty paper cup into a trash can. Across the street, there’s the Church of Notre Dame. Jim’s church. Hers as well, although she never thinks of it that way. She stands looking at it a moment, then reaches deep into her handbag. She finds a scarf, ties it over her hair and walks up the church steps.

 

#

 

An old woman emerges from the confessional, leaving the door open behind her. Carol watches the little light bulb above the booth and when it switches off, she steps in. She slides the latch into place and gives the door a little rattle, until she feels certain no one will open it. She settles down upon the red velveteen kneeler and waits.

The logical, scientific side of her still can’t believe that she’s even in this church. Before she was married, she told Jim she wanted a simple, secular wedding: their families, a few friends, and dinner afterward at a nice restaurant. Nothing big, nothing elaborate. She tried to convince him that it could be over quickly, painlessly, and let them get right on with their new, married lives. When all her arguments failed, she put her arms around his neck, sighed against the curve of his ear then whispered, _if we go to City Hall tomorrow, we could get a hotel together that night. Wouldn’t you like that?_

Jim groaned. _You're killing me here, Carol_ , he said. But he never wavered in his insistence on a church wedding. She liked that about him: steadfast in his beliefs, never questioning. He was always so sure of himself, so sure of everything, so… _American_ that way, she thought. He was the most charming, handsome man she’d ever met. _Imagine if I hadn’t left England,_ she sometimes told him. _I would have gone my whole life without you._

So, for two months, Carol had spent three evenings a week in the basement of the Church of Notre Dame with other converts, one lapsed Jew, five Protestants, and Carol, who’d always considered herself a rational skeptic more than anything else. She’d once tried explaining to Jim how she felt. _If the universe is truly infinite, then yes, there’s possibly something out there larger than ourselves but without proof…_ He had looked so sorry for her that she never brought it up again.

She memorized all the cues and correct responses, when to kneel, when to sit, when to stand. She prided herself on having learned it all before her classmates, earning the praise of the priest who taught the class. She worked as hard at it as any of her other classes but when it came time to make her first confession, she barely made it through with a straight face. She found something so melodramatic about the confessional, as if she were the heroine of a Gothic novel _. I’ve sinned, I’ve lied, I’ve acted on impure desires._

When she’d finished her confession, the elderly priest on the other side of the grille nodded gravely and in a low voice, he began to recite the Act of Absolution, ending with a blessing. _May God, who has enlightened every heart, help you to know your sins and trust in His mercy._

The scientific part of Carol insisted it was all a sensory trick: the near darkness of the confessional, the overpowering smell of incense, the curious way Latin sounds like an enchantment. But when the priest blessed her, just for a moment, Carol _felt_ lighter, like she was taking off a woolen coat that was wet with snow. The feeling vanished almost as soon as she left the confessional. But for months afterward, she tried to dissect what, if anything, had actually happened to her. 

Now, in the booth, her eyes adjust to the dim light and she can make out the Act of Contrition on the brass plaque in front of her, the engraving softened by years of penitent fingers.

        _O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee,_

_and I detest all my sins, because of Thy just punishments,_

_but most of all because they offend Thee, my God,_

_Who are all-good and deserving of all my love._

_I firmly resolve, with the help of Thy grace,_

_to confess my sins to do penance and amend my life._

_Amen._

From behind the covered panel, Carol hears the creak of wood and a man softly clearing his throat. The confessional window slides open. Despite the grillwork, she can see this isn’t the grandfatherly man she had confessed to before. This priest seems so young, close to her own age, and she isn't sure she’ll be able to confess to him. She considers walking out, but then the man begins to speak.

He begins in Latin and finishes in English. “May the Lord be in thy heart and on thy lips, so that thou mayest rightly confess all thy sins.” His voice is soft and honeyed, with slack vowels. It reminds her of the musicians on _Ozark Jubilee_ , her favorite television program. Jim scoffs when she watches it. _Hillbilly music,_ he says _._ But the drawl of the South is still so curious to her, almost exotic.

The priest clears his throat again, and she realizes he’s waiting for her to begin.

“Yes, sorry. I mean, forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been… almost two years since my last Confession.” She shrinks back from the grille, bracing herself for admonishment, but the priest only nods.

“What brings you to Confession today?” he asks.

It had seemed so obvious just a few moments ago: she’d go to church, confess, be absolved, feel better, lighter, like she did once before. But she doesn’t have an answer for the priest’s question. _Sins? What have I done?_

“I used the Lord’s name in vain. I’ve... lied. I’ve been angry. I’ve been envious. I’ve...”  Her voice grows thick and she falls silent for a moment, waiting to dispel the knot in her throat.

“These are all sins for which you should seek forgiveness, but are these the sins you have come to confess today?” he asks. She expects the priest to seem concerned, or even disappointed, but he looks at her with such kindness that even through the grille, she can only hold his gaze a moment before she lets her eyes drop.

“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore, Father.” Her voice is barely a whisper and the wooden bench creaks as the priest shifts closer to her. “I don't know what I really want. It seems… I only know what I _don’t_ want. I’m unhappy all the time lately and angry, and... alone.”

Her tears fall onto the Act of Contrition, clinging in the curves of the letters. “I don't know what I'm supposed to do,” she says.

From the other side of the partition, she hears a soft exhalation of breath, almost a sigh.

“It’s not a sin to be lost. All of us, we all lose our way sometimes.” He pauses long enough to let her wonder, _do priests ever feel lost?_

“But, the Psalms tell us ‘The Lord is my shepherd,’ and like all shepherds, He knows when one of us is strayed too far from the flock. Don’t you worry, He’ll bring you back into the fold if you let Him.”

She nods and wipes her face while the priest offers her absolution for her sins. She closes her eyes and lets the Latin envelop her, willing herself to let his words affect her. He reads Psalm 25 aloud to her, _unto thee, O Lord, do I lift up my soul_. His voice thrums in her chest.

“God bless you, child. Go in peace,” he says. She takes a last look through the grille before responding: the sweep of dark hair across his forehead, the curve of his bottom lip.

“Thank you, Father,” she says at last. She unbolts the little wooden door and steps out.

She knows she’s supposed to kneel now, to give thanks for what she’s just received, but instead she heads directly to the church doors. 

As she hurries down the church steps, she clutches her coat to her, trying to shield the warmth in her chest from the wet March winds.


	2. Leonard

He pauses, his thumb on the switch. Once he presses it, the small light above his confessional will switch off, signaling that he’s ready to hear someone else. But first, he leans close to the partition that divided him from the last parishioner and inhales. It’s faint and fading quickly, but for a moment, her perfume still hangs in the air.

It isn’t the sort of thing he usually notices, but the scent reminds him of something he thought he’d forgotten. He closes his eyes and can almost picture it: white flowers with glossy green leaves. _A gardenia_ , he thinks _. Or were they magnolias?_ Something that bloomed in all the back yards in late spring, when he was a kid, right about the time the lightning bugs would appear. He was just a little thing, shuttled here and there to live with relatives when his mother would shut herself in her bedroom and stay there for days or weeks at a time.

There was a seemingly endless supply of aunts, uncles, cousins willing to take little Len in. _Such a good little boy_ , one aunt would say. _Despite everything that’s happened_ , another would reply. And then they’d tut quietly and try to paste down the funny cowlick at the back of his head. But he always liked his grandparents’ house best, smelling of peach pies and elderly hounds. Upstairs, his father’s boyhood room still had faded baseball pennants pinned to the walls. At dusk, he roamed through the yard and caught fireflies in his bare hands until his grandmother called him inside. _Leonard McCoy, you get in the house this instant before them mosquitoes eat you alive._

When he opens his eyes, he tells himself it’s mere nostalgia—homesickness, even—but he looks at the grille and shifts uncomfortably in his seat. Despite having been at the Church of Notre Dame only a few months, he thought he knew nearly everyone who came to confession. The father with five kids who does whatever he can to keep himself from becoming a father of six. Two elderly sisters that bicker constantly over whether to buy _The New York Times_ or _The New York Post_. That teenage boy who snuck out to see _And God Created Woman_ three times in one week and still confesses his impure thoughts about Brigitte Bardot.

But this woman he heard today… he’s sure he’s never heard her voice before. Even if she hadn’t smelled of home, surely he would have remembered her voice, her precise, clipped syllables. 

_Sort of foreign sounding, too,_ he thought. _English, I guess?_

It reminded him of movie stars in the newsreels during the war. What a shame it was to hear a voice so elegant and refined full of tears like that. Just remembering it hurts him. He takes a well-worn rosary from his pocket and sighs.

_I wanted to help people, Lord. I mean, I do want to help people; I just don’t always know if I am. That girl today, did I help her? She seemed so sad and I… well, I honestly didn’t know what to tell her. Her only real sin was sadness and it doesn’t seem right that someone that beautiful should be sad._

He stops praying.

_Beautiful?_

He tries to recall what she looked like, hoping to assemble a portrait from glimpses through the partition. Fair skin, light hair tucked behind an ear, a flash of white teeth. Perhaps she was beautiful but such things shouldn’t matter to him anymore, he knew. He pinches a rosary bead between his thumb and forefinger until the discomfort hones his attention.

He wonders what it would be like to be a tent revival preacher instead, the kind he grew up around. To lay his hands on the faithful, and heal someone as the human conduit of God on Earth? How long had it been since he laid a hand on anyone?

He releases the rosary and examines the divots in his skin, pleased to see the damage. He switches the confessional light off.


	3. Jim

“Carol?” he says. He was about to slide the bolt when he realizes their apartment is dark and silent. He waits for a reply, but he knows she would have heard him come home. He checks their bedroom first, thinking she might be asleep, not that she's ever in bed at this hour. Not alone, at least.

He checks the kitchen and finds it empty. The oven is cold. She probably hasn’t gone to the neighbors to borrow sugar or an egg or whatever it is she does. He settles onto the battered sofa, picks up the pack of Chesterfields and fumbles in his pockets for a lighter.He flips through one of the magazines on the table and flicks the ash from his cigarette more often than strictly necessary. The ashtray reads  NIAGARA FALLS,  a honeymoon souvenir. He crushes the cigarette out on the Bridal Veil Falls.

From the other side of the door, he hears a sound of keys rattling. He heaves himself off the sofa and opens the door.

“Hello again, Mrs. Kline,” he says.

The elderly woman peers up at Jim with rheumy eyes before retrieving a pair of thick glasses from a coat pocket. 

“I’m sorry, dear,” she says. “I just get turned around sometimes coming up these stairs.” 

“I understand,” he says. “May I escort you home, Mrs. Kline?” He offers her his arm and she leans on him as they walk to the other end of the tenement hallway.

“Please, call me Bertha,” she says.

“Bertha,” he says, leaning down next to the old woman’s ear, “would your husband approve of us being on such familiar terms with each other? I may start to think you’re showing up at my door on purpose.”

She covers her mouth with her hand and giggles like a young girl. Jim stops in front of her door, waits for her to produce her keys again from the depths of her coat pocket.

“Thank you, dear. I’m sure it won’t happen again,” she says, opening her door.

Jim smiles. “Have a good night, Mrs. Kline.” He waits outside her door until he hears the click of a deadbolt, then strides back down the hall to his apartment.

Once inside, he lights another cigarette before taking another look through all the rooms. The kitchen, still empty, and the bathroom beyond that, cluttered with face powder, setting lotions, the perfume Carol’s parents send her every Christmas.He picks up the square black bottle reading _Fracas de Robert Piguet_.

Before they were married, he asked Carol’s roommate to find out what perfume Carol wore, so he could surprise her with it on her birthday. Her roommate said she thought the stuff was expensive but when the salesgirl at Bergdorf Goodman told him how much it cost, he’d been stunned. As he replaces the bottle on the shelf, he still can’t decide which was worse: the fact he couldn’t afford it or how the salesgirl had tried not to laugh in his face, reminding him he was still a dumb hick from Iowa after all.

He returns to the bedroom, darker now as the last light of the day fades. The bed is made. On the nightstand, Carol’s textbooks sit under a battered copy of _Peyton Place_. He stops in front of the dresser and hesitates a minute, his hand on the knob. Carol could be intensely private. She would hate to find him pawing through her things.

He pulls open the top drawer and he’s relieved to find everything still there: bras, girdles, slips, stockings. He mentally crosses out the worst possibility on his list—she hasn’t packed up and left him. 

_Not that she would,_ he thinks. _Not_ _Carol_.

He nudges the silky underthings around, trying not to disturb the order she’s laid out until, at last, he finds it. Pushed to the back of the drawer, a pink plastic container, still there. He extracts it from its hiding place and reads the pharmacy label on it, her name neatly typed: _Mrs. James (Carol) Kirk_. He snaps it open. It still holds a flesh-colored rubber diaphragm. 

_Of course,_ he thinks. He leans against the dresser, sagging with relief and shame. Of course it’s still there. How could he have ever thought otherwise? 

Carol is a good girl, he knows that. He’s always known that, from the moment he’d met her. More than that, though, she wasn’t like the other girls on campus. She was more than just pretty and nice; she was sophisticated, refined. Being around her made him feel he could be the same. On their first date, he knew he needed to marry her and he made it a point not to mess things up, not to taint her by going too far before they were married. 

_And it worked,_ he thinks. _It all worked out perfectly._

He closes the diaphragm case and tucks it back into the recesses of her things, then slides the drawer back into place.

 

#

 

In the kitchen, he switches on the small transistor radio. He listens to the news while he fries two eggs in butter. Scientists have launched another satellite into space, _Vanguard 1_ , the second so far this year and it’s only March.He eats with his back against the counter as that idea sinks in: man-made objects passing high above his head as they circle the Earth. How small everything must seem to them.

Outside the door, he hears the clatter of keys hitting the ground. He leaves his greasy plate in the sink and opens the door to find Carol trying to hold two grocery bags in one arm. As the door swings open, she startles at seeing him. She nearly drops one of the bags, which he takes from her.

“Oh, don’t _do_ that,” she says. “You scared me.”

“Hi, Jim Woodward,” he says, extending a hand. “I live here. Would you like to come in?”

She makes a face and thrusts the other bag into his outstretched hand. “You need to come up with some new jokes. I’ve heard that one twice this week.”

He sets the groceries on the floor. He takes her face in his hands and kisses her. Her cheeks are cold under his hands. He swipes at her bottom lip with his tongue.

“Could I at least take off my coat and hat before you ravish me?” she says, backing away.

“I can’t help being glad to see you. Where were you?” he asks.

She looks down. “Church,” she says, unfastening a button.

He chuckles quietly and steps closer, into the warmth of her opened coat. “If you don’t want to tell me, you could come up with something more believable than _church_ ,” he says.

He looks up and sees her scowling. “You’re serious?" he asks. “Were you… did you go to confession?” He leans back to get a better look at her face.

She brushes him aside and walks away to hang her coat. “I just thought I would give it another try,” she says from the hallway. “And then I still had to go to the market and I ran into Barbara while I was there. She asked me to go to the movies with her Friday and I said I would go.” She returns to the kitchen, inspecting the eggs before placing them in the fridge. 

“I think it’s great, really,” he says. “The church part, I mean.” He takes a can of peas from the bag and sets it in a cupboard. 

“No, look, vegetables go here.” She takes the peas and sets them on a different shelf. She lays her hand over Jim’s on the countertop and looks at her thumb rubbing against his wrist. “I see you going every week and I thought I might understand what you get out of it.”

He slides his arm around her waist and draws her in close. 

“Whatever makes you happy, sweetheart," he says softly. "That’s all I want."

She rests her forehead into his chest and nods. He considers asking, _is everything alright?_ But he isn’t sure he wants to know. Instead, he smooths her pale hair down and kisses the crown of her head. 

She squares her shoulders and pulls her head up. “Have you already eaten? I can make us something.” she says.

He shakes his head. “I already ate,” he says. “You wanna watch TV with me? I think Wyatt Earp is on tonight and I know how you feel about cowboys... _ma’am_.” He gives her a wink and shoots at her with a finger pistol before placing it in an imaginary holster at his hip. She blushes, a pink flush that spreads across her face, and he laughs.

In bed that night, with Carol curled against his back, he looks at the dresser drawer for a long time before falling asleep.


	4. Leonard

The diner booth he likes best is far enough from the door not to catch every blast of cold air but next to the window to watch people walk up and down Broadway. He takes off his coat and slides into the seat.

"Father!" the waitress exclaims. "I haven’t seen you in ages. I thought maybe you’d had enough New York winter and packed up for home." 

He smiles. "No, I’m still here. Haven’t seen you around much either, though."

"I’ve been going to night school, to become a beautician. Don’t want to be working here my whole life, you know?" The priest nods. "Now then," she says, producing a notepad from her apron. "Pecan pie is sold out again, but apple and blueberry, and… I think cherry out back."

"Cherry then, thanks."

"A la mode?" She retrieves a pencil stub from behind her ear.

"Yes, please, but—"

"No, hon, I remember: ice cream next to the pie, not on top."

"Thank you, Margaret." The waitress tucks her notepad away and smiles down at him before heading to the kitchen. He smiles back. 

_She remembered_. A little more than six months in New York and Margaret’s the first person beyond the confines of the church to make him feel at home. Maybe next time, he’d sit down and just say _the usual, Margaret_. Maybe he would like it here after all. He makes a mental note to include Margaret in his prayers at night, elevating her to the ranks alongside his family, his fellow priests, and his favorite baseball player, Ted Williams.

When Margaret returns with his slice of pie, he glances up from his beaten copy of _The Seven Storey Mountain_ and asks to borrow her pencil a moment. He underlines part of a sentence: _and you opened the seas before my ship, whose track led me across the waters to a place I had never dreamed of, and which you were even then preparing to be my rescue and my shelter and my home_.

He returns the pencil with thanks and looks at the sentence he’s just underlined again. He thought he’d already made note of everything Thomas Merton wrote about coming to New York, but this line eluded him.

_My rescue and my shelter and my home_ , he reads again. The words burn in his chest. He closes the book and turns his attention to the pie before the ice cream melts.

#

He’s picking at over-baked pie crust when two young women file into the booth behind him.

"I can’t believe you haven’t been here before," one woman says to the other.

"I’ve walked by dozens of times, I’ve just never been inside before," the other says.

He pauses, fork hovering above the plate. The voice is familiar but it takes a minute to place it.

"What can I get you girls?" Margaret asks.

"Oh, pancakes, I think. And a glass of milk," the first voice says.

"Just coffee for me, thank you," says the second woman. It’s the quiet way she says _thank you_ that reminds him: it’s her, the young woman who wept in his confessional last week.

He’d thought about her for days after. Lying in bed at night, he replayed what she’d said, the choked sob in her voice. He’d asked God for guidance, asking whether he could have said something else, something more meaningful, more helpful. He hears her pealing laugh, spilling out of the booth. Whatever girlish crisis she had was over and he’d probably never see her at confession again.

"More coffee, Father?" Margaret asks.

He nods. "And the check, whenever you’re ready." She fills his cup and he reopens his book, trying not to eavesdrop on the women behind him. Margaret leaves the bill next to his plate.

"Oh, honestly, Janice, I don’t know what he gets up to with his friends every week," the woman from the confessional says. "Sometimes he comes home with the oddest bruises and, on at least one occasion, I could swear someone had bitten him."

"You don’t think he’s, you know…" Janice’s voice trails off.

"What, fooling around on me?" Carol’s voice drops and the priest resists the urge to lean back to hear her better. "No, I think he’s far too Catholic for that. You remember what he was like before we got married but I’m telling you, he put a ring on my finger and had my wedding dress off within the hour."

He drops his fork onto the plate with a clatter.

“Carol!” Janice squeals. 

The priest feels his face growing red, hearing the two women laugh. He grabs his coat, sets Margaret’s tip beside his coffee cup, and takes the bill to the cash register at the opposite end of the diner. As he winds a plaid muffler around his neck, Margaret walks by, coffee pot in hand. She looks at his face and pauses.

“Everything okay there, Father?” she asks quietly.

“I… yes, thank you. Have a good night, Margaret.” He looks down and brushes a stray crumb from his coat.

Margaret reaches out toward his arm, but her hand closes in mid-air and she tucks it into her apron pocket instead.

“You too,” she says.

After he leaves the diner, he turns to walk up Broadway, passing the bank of windows where he was just sitting. Carol sits next to the window, looking at the woman across the table. The glimpse of pale hair through the confessional grille made him think she’d be a voluptuous blonde but she’s slighter than that; Grace Kelly, not Jayne Mansfield. Her face is animated, with a smile not meant for him.

He turns away, looks up at the length of Broadway, gray slush melting on the sidewalks. Under his woolen scarf, he reaches up to fix the white tab at his throat.

_God bless you, Carol_ , he thinks. _I hope you have a good life._


	5. Carol

Carol sits on the edge of the bed and picks up the battered copy of _Peyton Place_ from her nightstand. _Damn_. She meant to return it to Janice today when they went to the movies and the idea of spending time so soon with her again makes her head pound. Not that she doesn’t love Janice—she does, really—but too much one-on-one time with anyone leaves Carol feeling drained to a stupor.

She leaves her shoes by the bedside and goes to the kitchen to put the kettle on. She hangs up her dress and changes into her nightgown before the water boils. She puts the teapot on a tray, along with stationery from her desk and her favorite pen, and brings it back to the bedroom. She slips into bed, taking the biggest textbooks into her lap like a desk, and thinks about writing her father a letter. Instead, she picks up the copy of _Peyton_ _Place_ again.

Janice had been so surprised to hear Carol had never read it.“It’s _fantastic_. You’ve _got_ to read it.” She pressed the book into Carol's hands. Carol tucked it into her purse and promptly forgot about it. A week later, she was stuck in bed with a particularly lingering cold. Too sick to read the scientific journals piled up by her bed but not so sick she wasn’t feeling restless and confined, she picked up the book one morning and didn't put it down until it was finished.

She could see why Janice loved it. It was melodramatic, full of gossip and secrets, more than a little like Janice herself. It was hard to remember there was a time that Carol didn’t like her. They were both friends with Carol’s roommate, Christine. Both blondes, both Columbia co-eds. But their similarities ended there. Janice was chatty, vivacious, always happy to talk to someone she didn’t know. But every time Carol spoke to someone new, they inevitably asked about her accent, wanting to know where she was from, what she was doing in New York. 

When she was introduced to Janice, Jim and Carol were about to go on their first date. And because Janice had dated him first, however briefly, she considered herself an expert in what Jim liked and didn’t like. Whenever the three girls spent time together, Janice took it upon herself to offer Carol advice. _You should wear blue, he likes girls in blue; lean in close and blow in his ear, it drives him crazy; play hard-to-get, he can’t resist a challenge._

She went out of her way to avoid Janice’s advice. She wore any color but blue on her dates and when Jim tried to kiss her, she didn’t stop him. No matter how she tried to spend time with just Christine, Janice always seemed to turn up but as time passed, the advice stopped. Eventually, Christine got engaged, then Janice, then finally Jim asked Carol to marry him. Her friendship with Janice remained tenuous for a long time, but when Christine married and moved to Long Island, they drew closer, realizing they were all they had left. 

But earlier tonight, when Janice implied that perhaps Jim was out seeing someone else every Friday night, it sent Carol right back to those days when she thought Janice was bossy and rude. For a moment, she hated her all over again, her overly loud voice, asking, _you don’t think he’s… you know…_ Of course Carol had considered what Jim got up to every Friday night. She wasn’t stupid; she knew what men were like. Other men. Not Jim. 

He used to drag her along every Friday, from Harlem to the Bowery and back again seeking out whatever jazz musicians he liked best that month. She tried to find ways to enjoy herself, studying the technical prowess of the players or the complex harmonic structures of the music. Mostly, though, she just liked to watch Jim’s rapt expression, until he would catch her staring and she would look away. Then a few months after they were married, she had a chance to observe the Comet Arend-Roland on the university's telescope and the best viewing time was Friday night. 

She asked Jim if he wouldn’t mind going out alone and since then, their Friday nights had been spent apart. He told her he’d formed a group of fellow jazz lovers to go with him in her stead. It was good for him, she thought, to have friends who could share his interests.

While he was out, she painted her nails or caught up on her reading. Sometimes she’d spend hours in the bathtub, listening to the radio. If she was still awake when he got in, he’d regale her with stories of what she missed, Thelonious Monk this, Sonny Rollins that. With his hair mussed and eyes wide, he looked to her like a boy just back from a big adventure. Sometimes as he was mid-sentence, she was compelled to dot his face all over with tiny kisses until he laughed. 

“I missed you, Sunny Jim,” she'd say.

He was usually back before midnight but there were Fridays he wouldn’t return until late. The first time, Carol had been queasy with worry, watching the hours slip by. It was nearly three in the morning by the time he walked in—staggered in, really. She took his coat and hat for him and hung them. She didn’t want to be one of those wives who nagged or cried, so instead, she stood and waited calmly to hear where he’d been. 

With a sigh, he dipped his head and buried his nose in her hair. She thought he was going to admit that he drank too much or fell asleep on the train but instead, in a low voice, he began to tell her what was he was about to do.

To her.

What he wanted to do, what it would feel like, how it was going to be. His hands slipped into her hair and tightened, exposing her throat as his teeth scraped her skin. He pressed towards her; she retreated until she was pinned between his hips and the little table they ate dinner on. She could do little more than sputter, her protest dying on her lips, but his words kept coming—his charm and courtliness gone, drawn back to reveal a side of him that was urgent and feral. 

His hands slipped over her breasts, clutching at her through the plain cotton nightgown she wore, and tweaking her hardened nipple so savagely she flinched. He lifted the hem of her nightgown then lifted her bodily onto the table. He pulled her underwear halfway down her thighs then slid a finger into her without hesitating, using his free hand to strip away her panties. He ran his hand up along the inside of her thigh, nudging her thighs apart. His fingers twisted and curled inside her. Her body shook, excited, terrified.

He leaned close, his voice hissing in her ear: “You like that, don’t you? You want it, Carol... just say it. Say you want it—”

She could only nod. 

He swiftly undid his pants, wrapping her legs around his waist until finally he was inside her, thrusting into her relentlessly, the little table pounding against the wall with each snap of his hips, as she curled her entire body around him, hiding her face in the open neck of his shirt.

The next morning, she wasn’t able to look him in the eye without hearing the things he’d said. Even looking at their little table for more than a moment made her face burn. As he was getting dressed that day, she caught sight of a mark on his shoulder, something that looked like teeth had pressed hard into his skin.

“Oh, Jim,” she sighed, delicately fingering the spot, “was that... did _I_ do that?”

He craned his neck to see. “Hmm… maybe?” he said. “To be honest, the guys were all pretty liquored up last night, and we were all acting like a pack of jackasses. I wouldn’t be surprised if I took a few lumps from that.” He pulled on a clean shirt and said nothing more about it.

Weeks passed and their lovemaking went back to its routine. Once or twice a week, always in bed, after they’d turned off the light. They kissed but didn’t speak, except when Jim asked whether her diaphragm was in. _Are we safe?_ he’d whisper. 

After a month or so, she believed that night had been a fluke, that jazz and liquor and lust had aligned in a way she'd never see again. But it did happen again, this time on the living room floor, and then another time after that, until eventually she found a pattern. He comes home late, unrelenting and predatory. His skin bears odd marks, a scrape on his back or a thumbprint-like bruise on his hip. She knows there’s an undetermined variable in this equation, some absent data that’s lead to this result, but she has no hypotheses to test, just uneasy curiosity.

She sets aside her stationery and looks at her watch. Not quite midnight. She opens the copy of _Peyton Place_ and waits.


	6. Leonard

Emerging from sleep to wakefulness, Leonard feels comfortably boneless, hazy. He had been dreaming about something, something sweet. He can feel himself still smiling without knowing why. His eyes open reluctantly to check the clock. Just before 5. He turns over to go back to sleep and flinches. _Cold. Wet_. He sighs and throws back the sheets in disgust to find the crotch of his pajamas sticky and damp.

While at seminary school they called it _a Saint Augustine’s dream_ in whispers. Every student knew by heart a passage in Augustine’s _Confessions_ : The soul “neither commits nor consents to these debasing corruptions which come through sensual images and which result in the pollution of the flesh.” _If you’re asleep, it ain't a sin, son_. 

Being denied any other form of release, the occasional unsolicited dirty dream was a welcome exception to a life of celibacy for a lot of his brothers. Over breakfast, a student might smirk and drop his voice conspiratorially. _Brothers, a vision of Saint Augustine appeared to me last night and he looked just like Bettie Page._

But the older Leonard got, the more he found it a nuisance, something that shouldn't still happen to a grown man. He can’t even remember what the dream had been.

He gets up, trying to keep the damp bedclothes from sticking to him any more than they already are. He pulls the sheets from the bed before stripping off his clothes. Cinching his robe, he gathers up all the offending items into a bundle. Before he leaves his small room for the shower, he bends over and peers into a small wooden crate at the foot of his bed. There, in a bundle of rags, is a half-grown scrawny calico, curled into a ball.

“Hey there, missy,” he says quietly, scratching the cat’s head. Her hind legs stretch luxuriously and her paws splay, before settling back into sleep. 

_Sure would be nice if she could stay here_ , he thinks as he stuffs his clothes and sheets down the laundry chute. _But she should go to a real home._

He locks the bathroom door behind him and hangs his robe on the door.

_I bet some parishioner will take her in,_ he thinks. _Maybe Carol._

#

Yesterday, he was out walking through Riverside Park, desperately glad that spring was starting to assert itself. It was only mid-April but already warm enough that he could take off his jacket and sit on a park bench in just his shirtsleeves. He bought a copy of the paper from the newsstand at the corner but it sat folded next to him. Instead, he watched robins hopping around in muddy brown grass, then looked past them, to the Hudson and out to the horizon. 

Across the river, a yellowish mist of budding leaves seemed to shroud the stark tree branches, and from the recesses of his memory, a piece of a long-forgotten poem surfaced: _Nature’s first green is gold_. He spent several minutes struggling to recall the rest but never came up with more than the one line.

He picked up the paper and flipped past the news, checking the sports pages for the box scores. While he read, it began to rain, just a few fat drops rattling his newspaper. He picked up his coat and began walking back to the rectory. He used the paper to shield himself from the rain, hurrying down the street, trying to stay ahead of the storm. As he neared the rectory’s gate, he saw someone stooped low to the ground, a woman under an umbrella.

“Is this your cat?” the woman asked. On her lap was a wet, dirty animal. It darted off her legs at seeing him, running under her skirts before cautiously reappearing. She tipped back the umbrella and he realized it was her. 

_Carol?_ he thought. She was scowling up at him, eyebrows drawn together. 

“Not ours. It must be a stray,” he said and her expression softened. She nodded and took a long look down Amsterdam Avenue, then at the cat.

“Do you… have a box or an old crate I could borrow?” she asked.The rain was pelting down, threatening to soak Leonard to the skin.

“Yes, probably. Please, just come inside, the both of you,” he said, nodding towards the rectory door. She tried to hold the wet cat under one arm, her umbrella in the other, but when the cat struggled, he took the umbrella from her hand and held it over her, her shoulder against his arm.

He led her into the rectory. She held the cat as he helped her with her coat. As he hung it, her perfume of white flowers lingered with it, the same as before, just as he remembered it. After showing the way to the parlor, he insisted she make herself comfortable while he went to fetch a towel. In the kitchen, Father Lawrence and Brother Felix listened to the radio and bickered over how many potatoes each one had to peel.

He returned with a towel. “It’s a little threadbare,” he said, offering it to her, “but I’d never hear the end of it if I’d used our best on a stray.” She smiled as she thanked him and he looked down at the cat. 

“She’s probably a pretty thing under all that dirt,” he said. “Or he? What do you think, boy or girl?” The cat sniffed at the legs of the couch.

“Girl, obviously,” she said, taking the cat into her towel-covered lap. She began rubbing the cat’s damp fur. “Calicos are always female. It’s linked to their sex chromosomes, the way hemophilia or color-blindness only appears in men,” she said. 

Leonard took the far opposite corner of the couch from her and she turned to look at him. Her cheeks went pink and she turned her attentions back to drying the cat. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I’m a terrible know-it-all sometimes.”

“No, no,” he said. “I’m just surprised. How did you know that?”

“I read a lot of scientific journals.”

“Are you still a student?” he asked. 

“Yes, astronomy,” she said. “Over at Columbia."

Leonard whistled softly. “You must be as smart as a whip... I’m sorry, I realize we haven’t been formally introduced.” He extended his hand. “Leonard McCoy.”

“How do you do, Father McCoy; I’m Carol, Carol Kirk.” Her hand was small and cool against his own, but she shook his hand as a man might, firmly, with purpose. He placed his other hand atop hers, enveloping it. For a second, he forgot everything else.

“Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Kirk,” he said at last. “It is _Mrs.,_ isn’t it?”

She nodded as she withdrew her hand. “It is but, please, just ‘Carol’ is fine.”

The cat settled comfortably into her lap and licked at a paw. As she petted the cat’s fur, he watched her hands. They were fine and tapering, with cherry red nails that set off her skin. He considered telling her how he liked the red nail polish, that the color suited her, but stopped himself rather than say anything that might be inappropriate. Instead they sat in silence, and the cat’s purr filled the room.

When the towering hall clock struck three, Carol and the cat started at the sound. The cat sprang from her lap and dove under the couch and both Carol and Leonard laughed.

“It doesn’t look as though it’ll stop raining soon,” he said, looking towards the window, “but you’re welcome to stay. I’m sorry, I’ve been a bad host. I haven’t even offered you something to drink. Can I get you anything? Tea? Or coffee? There’s probably coffee in the kitchen.” He felt his face grow warm at the thought of going to the kitchen and explaining his guest to the two older men there, as if he were a teenager with his sweetheart.

“Thank you, but I should probably be going,” she said. She crouched low to the floor and tried to coax the cat back out from under the sofa _. How is she going to get that animal home in this rain?_ he thought.

“I could… she could stay here with me for now, if that’s alright by you,” he offered. 

She smiled at him. “Would you, if it’s not too much trouble? I can help you find her a home later, if you’d like.” She stood and brushed at the hem of her skirt.

“No, it’s no trouble at all. In fact, I think we’ve got some mice in the basement; maybe she could stay and earn her keep like the rest of us,” he said. She laughed and he flushed with triumph at the sound.

He saw her to the door and helped her on with her coat. Then they said goodbye and shook hands as before. When he shut the door behind her, he felt able to breathe again, like he’d been swimming underwater and his head just crested the water's surface.

#

Now, alone in the bathroom, he catches sight of himself in the mirror above the sink. He looks at his naked chest and his dream flashes: a pale hand with red nails, pressed to his skin, just over his heart. In his dream, the hand is warm but the feel of it on his chest wasn’t arousing. It... calmed him, somehow. He touches the spot tenuously as if some trace might remain.

He presses the heels of his hands to his eyes until he sees spots, anything to erase the lingering image of his dream. He didn’t ask for it; why should he have to live with the memory of how it felt?

_How dare you?_ he thinks, but he can’t quite say who he’s furious with. He wrenches the shower on and steps into the icy spray.


	7. Jim

As soon as the smell of church incense reaches him, Jim Kirk finally feels like he is home, and the part of his mind that is always on guard can at last let go and be still.

He chooses a pew in what he thinks of as the sweet spot of any church, the midpoint between the door and the altar. He ushers his wife in and follows behind. They settle onto the hard wooden bench. Jim unbuttons his sport coat and rests his hat on his knee. Carol fidgets and sighs as she shrugs out of her own coat. From her small purse, she takes a notebook and a pencil stub and begins scribbling furiously before services begin.

Jim doesn’t ask what she’s writing. Possibly something she needs to add to her thesis or just some other thing she means to do later, return a phone call or pick up the laundry. _I have to write these things down,_ she once said, _so I can stop thinking about them_.

He knows writing things down before Mass is a concession to him, that she is trying to clear her mind now so that she can pay attention later but if a homily drones on for too long, her eyes will flick from corner to corner of the church ceiling. He knows her mind is far away, racing down a rabbit hole, chasing after something he’ll likely never understand.

In those moments, he feels sorry for her, cut off from the quiet and solace. _It’s just not how I was raised_ , she’s said, but he wasn’t raised in the church either. When he was small, his mother Winona spent Sundays sleeping or reading, trying to catch up on both before the next week began, working at the factory and taking care of a small boy with no husband around to help.

When Jim was 6, he went into his mother’s desk for drawing paper and found a photograph of a young black woman Jim had never seen before, posed stiffly in a graduation cap and gown. 

“That’s the girl your daddy saved,” his mother said. “Then he went back to help her father but the current…” She replaced the photo in the drawer and told Jim to go play outside then went to her bedroom and closed the door. When Jim wanted to look at the girl in the picture again, it was gone. She never mentioned his father again.

It wasn’t like her not to tell him things. They were _a team_ , she said. She was Lou Gehrig and he was Joe DiMaggio and if they were going to win the World Series then they all had to pull together. That meant Jim made his own supper after school sometimes and played outside when his mother was asleep after working the night shift because that’s what you do when you’re a team.

When his mother married again, there was no more team. She said now they were _a family_ , now they had Frank. Frank was tall and wore shiny suits and had slicked-back hair. He called Jim _mama’s boy_ and said things like _you better smarten up if you know what’s good for you, son_. Jim bristled at that—“son”—but shouting back _I ain’t your son_ only earned him a cuff upside the head.

When Jim was old enough to hit back, his trouble really started. After a joyride in Frank’s Chrysler and a shoving match in the middle of the street, Frank decided Jim needed to go to reform school. That night, Jim’s mother found him packing to run away, and she intervened with Frank. Catholic boarding school would serve just as well, she said. Jim was, after all, only twelve.

A week after his mother dropped him at St. Anthony’s, Jim had already been in three fights. The first two were little more than lunchroom scuffles, just two boys circling each other warily, shouting empty threats, and waiting for the other one to start something. But the third started when Jim asked Henderson if he preferred sleeping with pigs or cows when he was back home. 

Henderson, big for his age, with meaty fists toughened by farm work, split Jim’s lip open with his first punch and kept going. A crowd of boys clotted around them, egging them on. Brother Christopher put two fingers in his mouth and whistled so loud, the crowd shot off in all directions. He sent Henderson to the headmaster’s office and then pulled Jim into the nearby chapel.

Jim’s left eye was starting to swell shut and he swiped bloody ooze from his nose with the back of his hand. Brother Christopher held Jim’s face and with an expert touch, pressed around Jim’s cheekbones and nose with the pads of his thumbs, holding more firmly when Jim flinched.

“Nothing broken,” the man said and let Jim go. He pulled a starched white handkerchief from his pocket and offered it. “You want to tell me what happened, son?”

“M’not your son,” Jim mumbled around his fat lip. Brother Christopher didn’t cuff him. He didn’t even frown. He just silently laid a hand on Jim’s shoulder and looked him in the eye until Jim hung his head.

“When you’re ready to talk, you know where to find me, son.” He gave Jim’s shoulder a squeeze and walked away.

Jim had hardly slept or eaten since he arrived at St. Anthony’s. He wasn’t homesick; he was glad to be free, away from Frank. He just… didn’t belong there. Classes were long and he was constantly scrambling to keep up. After a day or two of thinking about it, he went to Brother Christopher and told him flat out: call his mother and tell her she was wrong; he would be better off at reform school.

“Funny,” Brother Christopher said, looking at the boy standing in his office. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for a quitter.” He slipped off his reading glasses and folded them. “I mean, I saw the way you went after Henderson. That boy’s a head taller than you and outweighs you by fifty pounds, at least, but you didn’t even stop to think—you just kept coming back, kept swinging at him. I looked at your file after watching you take such an epic beating. Wanted to be sure you weren’t soft in the head.”

He indicated a fat manila file and opened it. “Genius-level IQ score. Reasoning and analytical skills in the top percentile.” He closed the file and stood up from his chair, walking around to lean on the edge of his desk in front of Jim. “You know, I don’t think you’ve ever had a challenge before. You’ve probably skated your way through school up until this point and now that you’re somewhere where you don’t already know all the answers, you want out.” He folded his arms. “Well, I can draw up the paperwork right now and you’ll probably be top of the class in reform school. I just didn’t take you for a _quitter_ , son.”

When he thinks back on it, he realizes there are very few moments that he can point to and say right here, this changed me forever. There was first time he kissed Carol and knew he wanted to marry her. The weekend shore leave he spent in New York and swore to himself he’d move to the city as soon as his Navy stint was up. And there was the moment he told Brother Christopher _I ain’t a quitter_ and knew he’d condemned himself to work harder than he ever had before in his life.

He came to class early, stayed late, taught himself how to use a slide rule and the library’s card catalog. And while he never cheated, he discovered a unique talent for finding which rules were flexible and then bent them as far as possible, like pulling a birch tree to the ground and springing away before it snapped back. Handing in an assignment at ten minutes to midnight, he’d argue, meant it was still turned it the day it was due.

Initially, he went back to Brother Christopher’s office for advice or favors—a math tutor, permission to use the library after hours—but eventually he stopped fishing for reasons to visit him. They’d talk about school, sure, but Jim liked it best when Brother Christopher would talk at length about growing up in Brooklyn _. It’s the food I miss most_ , son, he’d sigh, usually after an especially dismal dining hall meal. 

After six months of learning how to be a good student, Jim found himself with Sundays free and Brother Christopher invited the boy to accompany him to Mass. St. Anthony’s prided itself on its progressive policies: its non-Catholic students were expected to attend services but never forced to do so, a rule Jim took full advantage of from his first day.

At first, he thanked Brother Christopher for the invitation and said _no, thanks_. But he asked again the next week, and the week after that until Jim gave in just to make him stop asking. The pair sat at the back of the church, and in a low voice, the brother quietly translated the Latin. He taught him when to stand, when to sit, when to kneel.And once Jim was familiar enough with the litany, he told Jim to close his eyes and simply listen, not to the words being said, but to the shifting and sighing of the people around him, to their voices in song or in prayer. _I think that’s where God really is_ , he told Jim.

The first few times Jim brought Carol to church together, he tried explaining to her, to let her thoughts be quiet, to listen not just to the priests but to everyone around her. She would try, closing her eyes and folding her hands in her lap like an obedient child. But a few minutes would pass and her eyebrows would pull down into a scowl and her jaw would clench _. You’re thinking too much_ , he’d say and she’d look so exasperated that sometimes he wished he could kiss her right there. Instead, he’d slip his hand into hers and try to imprint the peace and happiness he felt into her very bones.

Now, as Mass is about to start, she sets her pencil and paper back in her purse and holds her hand out to him to be held.

#

After services are through, Jim and Carol make their way to the church doors. The new priest, Father McCoy, is there, shaking hands and introducing himself to parishioners. Jim hasn’t met him before and wants to commend him on his homily, but as they draw close, Carol’s fingers suddenly dig into Jim’s arm. Jim watches as their neighbor, Mrs. Walsh, approaches with a smile.

“Carol! I was hoping to see you here. I have a tiny favor to ask of you,” says the woman. Jim knows Mrs. Walsh is going to ask Carol to attend yet another Tupperware party or Avon party or something else that Carol has no interest in doing. He knows she’ll agree to do rather than be impolite. _You’re too nice,_ he tells her. He tries not to smirk as Mrs. Walsh leads his wife away.

The crowd of parishioners slowly shuffles past the priests and out the door. Jim watches the new priest speak to two small girls. He isn’t leaning over, talking down to them; he’s on one knee, bringing his height down nearly to theirs. His face is animated and he gestures with both hands as he speaks. When the parents lead the girls away, he waves goodbye to them before standing. Jim watches the man’s face return to being sober and thoughtful as he approaches.

“Hi, I’m Jim Kirk,” he says, extending a hand. “That was a fine homily you gave, Father. The mystery of the Trinity is a hard thing to grasp and it was refreshing to hear you say it’s something you struggle to understand as well…”

The priest thanks him and nods, vacantly, as if his thoughts are elsewhere. “I’m sorry,” he says, “I didn’t quite catch your name. Did you say it was Kirk?”

“Jim Kirk, yes.”

“Is your wife Carol, by any chance?”

“I… yes, she is. Have you two met already?”

“She found a kitten outside the rectory and we took it in,” the priest says. He swallows hard and Jim watches his throat bobbing above the white collar.

“I think Carol would rescue every stray in Manhattan if she could,” Jim says. “On our first date, she caught a wild bird in her bare hands and...” 

The priest is now looking past Jim, over his shoulder, and Jim turns to see Carol walk up. “Hello, sweetheart. Ears burning?” Jim asks.

“Hello, Father,” she says quietly, “It’s nice to see you again.”

“I was just telling Father McCoy how you caught a sparrow when we met.”

“A pine warbler, actually,” she says.

“She scooped it up in one hand and we brought it into the middle of the park and then went to the movies.” He omits the part where, as they watched the bird hop away into the underbrush, Jim impulsively kissed her for the first time. He puts his hand on the small of her back.

“And how is your new pet?” Carol asks the priest. “Did you find her a home?”

“She’s hard at work in the church basement as we speak,” Father McCoy says, “but she might be getting ideas above her station. Seems she’s taken a shine to sleeping in the manger of the Nativity set.” Carol laughs and the priest ducks his head.

“Father,” Jim asks, “would like to have Sunday dinner at our place next week?”

Carol stiffens. “Oh, I-I’m sure Father McCoy has other things to do, Jim.”

“No, I’d like that very much,” the priest says. “I haven’t really gotten to know any of our parishioners yet and I’d be honored to have dinner with you.”

Jim can feel himself beaming. “Six o’clock next Sunday, then?” The priest nods and shakes hands with each of them before they leave.

Carol says nothing, walking two steps ahead of him the whole way home. She’d made him promise he would ask before impulsively inviting someone home for dinner, but in his excitement he forgot. His wife had somehow made friends with a priest. _A priest_. This had to be some kind of a sign. Maybe Jim couldn’t show her the peace and comfort of having faith. But, by God, maybe Father McCoy would.


	8. Carol

She looks up. There on the typewritten page, her words have become less and less legible. The last words she typed are just impressions the keys made as they struck paper.

“No…” she says to the empty room. “No no no…” How can this happen? She should have bought another; why didn’t she? She yanks the page from the roller and sets it aside. She flips open the Remington and fishes out the typewriter ribbon. Used up. Useless.

She pictures herself screaming, sweeping her arm across the desk in a rage, the furious satisfaction of sending the typewriter crashing to the floor. She wants to rip her notes to bits, shred them in her hands, flip her rickety little desk over. Instead, she grips the sides of the desk tightly, as if she is wresting control of it back from the other part of her that wants to destroy it. It hardly lasts a moment but then she is herself, calm again. She drops her head, rakes her fingers through her hair and groans.

It’s Friday night. The typewriter shop won’t reopen until Monday. Why didn’t she buy another ribbon the last time she was there? _Wait_ , she thinks. She pulls open the desk drawer. Old letters, a broken locket she still means to fix, a tin of watercolor paints… she spies a square box out in the back corner but as she grabs it, she realizes it’s too light. Empty. She tosses it into the trash and walks away from her desk, heading to the kitchen.

As she pours a Coke into a glass, she considers adding a generous slug of Cuban rum to it. She goes as far as to open the little bar she and Jim have set up in a corner of their living room before deciding that drinking alone will only make her feel worse. She sets the glass on the coffee table and sprawls out over the couch. She lets her shoes drop to the floor with an undignified thump, for once not thinking of what the people in the apartment below might think. She stares up at the ceiling and tries to formulate a plan.

Carol always has a plan; it’s how she makes it through from one day to the next. The plan for today had been: review all notes one last time, update outline of thesis accordingly, type out first two segments, take a bath, then write a letter to her father. She hadn’t even typed up the first few pages when the ribbon ran out.

She checks her watch: half-past eight. Even the stationer on Broadway who catered to Columbia students would be closed by now. She casts her mind over all the tenants she knows in the building. None are students, as far as she knows, and even if they were, she couldn’t bring herself impose on them. 

If she still lived in the dorms, she could have easily found someone willing to lend her a spare ribbon or even a typewriter for a few hours. Christine would have not only loaned Carol her typewriter, she would have fussed over her a few hours later to be sure she took a break for something to eat. Carol smiles. Jo would have fixed it; she always did.

Carol thinks of calling her, just to have someone to complain to about the self-inflicted crisis she’s in but then she remembers the last couple of times she called. A few Fridays ago, Carol interrupted a bridge party Christine and her husband Gene were having, and the time before that, Christine was exhausted from being up all night with a croupy baby, so Carol quickly let her off the phone. Both times Christine assured her she’d call back later, but never did.

Last fall, Carol and Janice had driven up to Connecticut one morning to see Christine’s house, not long after Gene Jr. was born. Once they were off the interstate, Janice navigated through street after street of identical tract houses, with a car in each driveway and a spindly young tree dropping dead leaves onto each green lawn. Just beyond the houses, more former farmland waited to be carved up.

Christine met them in the driveway, moved to tears that her old friends had come to see her. She showed them around the house; the three bedrooms, the living room with color TV, the kitchen where Gene wanted to install an automatic dishwasher that Christine thought was too extravagant.

The three women sat laughing and eating the lunch Christine made. Carol felt no time at all had passed since they were all living together in the dorms, planning dates and listening to records. Then the baby woke up and Jo rushed off to fetch him and show him off to her best friends. 

He was a colicky, fussy little thing and looked very much like an unhappy old man, a Gene Sr. in miniature. Janice clucked and cooed, insisting Christine let her feed him and burp him, both of which she did quite expertly, to Carol’s surprise. When Janice exclaimed _now it’s your turn!_ and began to hand off the baby to Carol, it was all she could do not to recoil.

Children were hard enough for her to relate to, but at least they had some internal logic and reason. Babies, however, were a mystery to her, all floppy necks and unexpected wailing. She held the baby stiffly, as if any sudden movement from her might break him. She tried smiling at him and he scowled, while his mother and Janice looked on and laughed.

After a moment, Janice asked for a sewing pattern Christine had mentioned and they went off into the spare bedroom leaving Carol behind with Junior, now intently gnawing on one tiny fist.

“Hi there,” she said softly. He looked up at her curiously. From somewhere outside, a dog began to bark and he craned his small head towards the sound. When the noise stopped, he turned back to her with a questioning look.

“What was that?” she asked him. “What was that noise?” She shifted his weight on her lap to free up one hand. Cautiously, she stroked the fine silken hair on his head. “What was that silly noise out there?” she asked again. “What a very strange world this is, isn’t it?”

To her horror, the baby’s face began to curdle and she was deeply relieved that his mother swept him up just as the wailing began in earnest. He continued crying as the three women said their goodbyes, with Christine jiggling the unhappy Gene Jr. with one arm and hugging her friends with the other.

As they drove back to the city, all Janice could talk about was how _nice_ Christine’s house was, how _new_ everything was, how she couldn’t _wait_ to live in a place just like that, what a _wonderful_ place it was to raise a family. 

_But what does Chris do all day?_ Carol wanted to ask. _Cook and clean and fuss over an infant from morning until night? Why couldn't she at least finish her degree first? Who does she talk to all day? Doesn’t she get lonely?_

Not long after that trip, Janice, too, dropped out of Columbia without completing her degree and then only Carol was left. The last time she saw Janice, pregnant and getting larger by the day, she asked Carol when she would also leave and “start living married life for real,” as if somehow her life with Jim was not yet real.

“But I'm nearly finished,” she said. “Why would I throw all those years of work when I'm so close to graduating?” Janice just shrugged and continued eating.

Now, Carol lays on the couch, staring at the ceiling. 

_What’s the point?_ she wonders _. So I can be the smartest den mother in the PTA?_ She could stay in the city. Surely Jim would find a job soon enough. She thinks of maybe becoming a research assistant, but she’s already had her fill of being talked over instead of spoken to, of being expected by her colleagues to make the coffee and take notes because _all you girls know shorthand, don’t you, doll?_

She drains her glass, thinks about turning on the television. When she looks at her desk, her eyes sting. _What am I even doing anymore?_

Her eyes swim with tears and she looks at her watch. _Ten minutes,_ she tells herself _. I’m going to sit here and feel sorry for myself ten minutes and then I’m going to get up and pull myself together_. She curls up like a cat, covers her face with her hands and begins to sob.

After she is wrung out, she checks her watch again. Eight minutes have passed. She wipes her face with her hands then sits up and takes a deep breath. When she was a newlywed, she began to set time limits for herself whenever she felt upset or lonely or overwhelmed. She learned to lock herself away in another room for no more than ten minutes. If she took longer, Jim would begin to wonder what she was doing, but if she took less time, it wasn’t enough.

She gets up from the couch, blows her nose, then checks her face in the bathroom mirror. After powdering her face and putting on her favorite lipstick, she looks almost the same as ever. 

In almost two years of marriage, Jim had never noticed when she’d been crying.

_Now what?_ she thinks. She could go back to her desk and draft her paper by hand but just looking at the typewriter irritates her. _I should get out of here_ , she thinks. She checks her wallet and does a quick calculation of exactly how far $3.75 will get her and decides to take herself out for a late dinner. _Nothing fancy, maybe the diner on Broadway and 114th_. She slips her shoes back on, grabs her coat and heads out the door.

On her way, she stops at the newsstand, sparing a nickel for the late city edition of the _New York Times_. Eating alone is bad enough, but eating alone without anything to read would be torture. She takes a booth at the diner, one by the windows, and picks up a menu, weighing each option with care. The waitress sets a glass of water on her table and before Carol can order, the woman turns away and calls out to someone walking in.

“Hello, stranger,” the waitress says. “I’ll be with you in just a minute.”

“It’s no hurry, Margaret,” the man says. Carol hears the voice and freezes. She sits up a little straighter, peering around the waitress’s hip. Father McCoy stops in his tracks, then smiles at her. 

“Hello, Mrs. Kirk,” he says as he walks up.

“Please, just Carol,” she says. She gestures to the empty seat across from her. “Would you… like to join me? I mean, unless you’d rather be by yourself, which I completely understand.”

“I’d be glad to have company, thank you,” he says as he slides into the booth.

Margaret fishes a pencil from her apron pocket and flips open her notepad. “What can I get you, Father?” she asks.

“The usual, please, Margaret,” he says.

“Cherry or apple?” she asks, not looking up from her pad.

“I think apple tonight, thanks.”

Margaret looks up from writing and frowns at him, shaking her head. “You want cherry, hon. Trust me.”

“Cherry then, please,” he says.

“Excellent choice,” Margaret says. “And you, ma’am?”

“I’d like… the cheeseburger deluxe with extra pickle and no onion, an order of French fries, and a… vanilla malted, please.”

“Sure thing, hon,” says Margaret before walking away. Carol replaces the menu in the stand and looks across the table. The priest’s eyebrows raise.

“Where’s a little thing like you going to put all that food?” he asks, smirking a little. 

“I’ve been working since lunch. I suppose I worked up an appetite,” she says. He nods and they fall silent. He nudges the silverware, making the fork parallel with the knife. She is suddenly too warm, peeling off her sweater.

“So,” he says, “all on your own tonight?”

She nods. “Every Friday night, yes. My husband—Jim—he’s off at some jazz club or another.”

“And… no girls allowed?”

“No, not at all. I used to go with him but I just… I’m just not that fond of jazz, so he goes on his own. So, I spend my Fridays at home or… having dinner with a friend.” She gestures toward him and a pink flush creeps up from his collar. 

_Shit_ , she thinks. _Was that too familiar?_

Margaret returns with a cup of coffee and Carol’s malted. “Food’ll be out in just a minute,” she says, and walks away.

“Tell me, what’s ‘the usual’?” Carol asks.

"Coffee. And pie a la mode."

"I see. And do you have a favorite kind of pie?" she asks, sipping the malted.

"Peach. When I was a boy, my grandmother made the best peach pies. If I was lucky, there'd be a piece leftover for breakfast the next morning." She wonders if he knows his accent slips into his voice when he talks about home. She finds something appealing about the sound of it, putting her in mind of summer, when the humid air seems to swirl around her bare legs.

“I take it you’re not from New York,” she says.

“No, ma’am, Georgia. About half a day’s drive from Atlanta,” he says, stirring the coffee. “You sound like you’re a long way from home, too.”

She tries to decide how specific she should be in describing where she’s from. “England,” she says. She waits for a spark of recognition or curiosity from him. _Oh really, whereabouts in England?_

His eyebrows raise. “A _very_ long way from home, then,” he says gently.

She nods. No one ever seems to ask more.

The waitress arrives with a tray, setting plates down in front of them. Carol is suddenly ravenous. Halfway through her cheeseburger, he asks her how her studies are going. She swallows and dabs at her mouth with a napkin.

“Good,” she says. “Really good.”

He tips his head a little to one side, looking at her. Her face grows hot. Her time in his confessional rushes back to her: the way she broke down, the kindness in his face. He returns his attention to the rapidly melting ice cream on his plate.

“I mean… my _studies_ are fine,” she says. “I should be graduating in June, once I finish my senior thesis. That’s sort of why I’m here tonight. I was typing it up and I just completely ran out of typewriter ribbon. And then I got so exasperated, I had to get out of the house.” 

His fork is resting on the plate. He’s just… listening. Not waiting for his turn to talk, or looking at the people passing by the window. He watches her as she speaks.

“It’s just… I don’t really know what I’ll do next,” she says, looking at her plate. “I’ve been working towards this degree for so long, I haven’t really thought about what might come after it. Whether to stay here in the city or… or not.”

“Well,” he says softly. “What do you really want, Carol?” Her name seems shockingly intimate, as if he’d laid his hand on her knee.

She shakes her head. “I… I don’t know any more.”

The waitress comes around with a coffee pot and refills the priest’s cup, breaking the silence. Carol nearly sighs aloud with relief. 

“I figured you two aren’t on a date, so...” Margaret says, leaving them with two separate checks. Father McCoy goes pink and the waitress throws Carol a wink before leaving.

_Definitely not on a date,_ she thinks. As he stirs his coffee, she wonders if he had ever been on a date. Had he ever kissed a girl? If she kissed him right now, would she be the first?

“Will we still see you for Sunday dinner?” Carol asks, suddenly aware of the silence. The fries are nearly cold by now but still she eats them, to have something to do. “Jim has a habit of springing invitations on people without warning, so I thought I’d offer you a chance to back out now if you’d like.”

“No, not at all,” he says. “In fact, I’m looking forward to getting to know your husband. It’s funny, he... sort of reminds me of someone. My brother, actually.” His eyes drop and he frowns. She doesn’t know whether to press further.

“Before I forget, let me write down our address and phone number for you,” she says. She fetches the small notepad she keeps with her always and finds a blank page. “Anything you especially like, or don’t like, as far as dinner?” she asks as she writes.

“No, ma’am. This boy was raised to eat whatever’s put in front of him and be grateful for it.” His eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles. She tears the page out and slides it across the table.

She tips her head toward the diner’s cash register. “Shall we?”

The priest slides out of the booth first, picks up her coat and holds it up for her to slip into. As she steps into it, he gently touches the back of her hair. They leave Margaret a generous tip, pay at the counter, and leave the diner together.

“So... see you Sunday?” he asks, buttoning his overcoat.

“Mm-hmm,” she says.

He nods then looks down 114th Street, empty and dark. He scowls. “It’s awful late. I should really walk you home.”

“That’s okay, you don’t have to,” she says. “I really don’t live far from here.”

“Then I guess it won’t be a very long walk,” he says. “Please, I insist."

They walk down the sidewalks in silence. A man approaches them, walking a large dog. She steps aside to let him pass and her shoulder presses against the priest’s arm for a few paces. When the man and his dog pass, she moves away with a strange sense of regret.

As they approach her building, she begins to wonder how she ought to say goodnight. To shake his hand seems so stiff and formal. She thrusts her hands deeper into her coat pockets.

At the corner, she stops and points down the block. “That’s me, just over there.” She opens her purse and begins to rummage for her keys. “I think I’ll be fine from here. Thank you, for walking me home.”

“Well, goodnight then,” he says. His hands are in his pockets as well. Carol reaches out and touches his arm, just where her shoulder had bumped into him.

“Goodnight, Father,” she says.

When she opens the door, she can see him from the corner of her eye, still standing where she left him. She looks back and waves, then hurries into the building, not wanting to see if he waved back.


	9. Leonard

He reaches the Kirks’ building, pauses, then keeps walking. He’s walked past three times already, looping around their block, trying to summon the nerve to go to the door.

_This is stupid. I should just go home._ He checks his watch again. Almost 8:30. Still, he could go to their party for just a little while, duck out early, and be home and in bed by ten o’clock. Or he could turn around and go home now. _No_ , he tells himself _, I should go because they’re my friends… I think._

For as long as he could remember, there was a soft, poisonous voice in the back of his mind. A voice that calmly assured him people weren’t really his friends, because they didn’t really like him. He was too serious, he didn’t fit in, he would never fit in, not here, not now, not anywhere. At times, he could go for weeks or even months without hearing this voice, but since his arrival in New York, he's heard it much more.

#

 

He went through the same agonies two weeks earlier when Jim invited him to dinner. When Sunday came, he went through the day with a lump of dread in his gut. They were expecting him for dinner at 6 o’clock that night and by 4:30, he was on the brink of panic, wishing he’d taken Carol up on the last-minute reprieve she’d offered. 

Brother Felix had encouraged him to forge connections with the families of the parish and Leonard trusted his advice. Not long after Leonard arrived in New York, he went downstairs late at night and found Felix at the stove, stirring a pot. When he got closer, Felix drew a ladle from the pot and handed Leonard a bowl of creamy grits. 

“They’re Carolina-style,” he said. “But I suspect you’ve been away from home long enough that you won’t much care.”

The two men sat at the kitchen table together, discussing which food they missed most, until the early hours of the morning. Since then, Felix was the closest thing Leonard had to a friend in the rectory.

When he saw Leonard adjust his collar in the mirror for at least the tenth time, Felix said “Go on, get out there and love your neighbor as yourself. That’s the job you signed up for.” He clapped Leonard on the back and nearly pushed him out the door.

That night, Leonard got to their building too early, so he circled the block twice before ringing their bell at precisely two minutes to six. Through the glass, he could see Jim bounding down the stairs like a teenager.

“Good to see you,” Jim grinned. “Dinner’s not nearly ready yet. Come on up.”

He followed Jim up three steep flights of stairs where a door marked 3B was open, the sound of a Chet Baker record spilling out into the hallway. Jim hung Leonard’s jacket by the door and insisted he make himself at home.

“You are allowed a drink, right?” Jim asked, retrieving two highball glasses from a cabinet in the corner of the room.

“I’m a priest, not a saint,” he said, pleased to earn a laugh. Carol appeared in the kitchen doorway, wiping her hands on the apron around her waist.

“Hello, Father,” she said. “I didn’t hear you come in.” Her cheeks were flushed pink and she brushed her hair away from her face with the back of her hand. “Everything’s nearly finished. Did Jim offer you a drink?”

Leonard held up his glass and when she smiled, he felt like he could breathe again. Maybe this evening wouldn’t be so hard after all.

#

Over dinner, Jim asked Leonard questions about himself until at last Carol interrupted, saying, “Jim, for heavens’ sake, let the poor man eat already.” 

In truth, Leonard didn’t mind. He was terrible at making small talk, but answering questions about himself was easy. He told Jim he was from Georgia originally, but had gone to seminary school in Louisiana.

“I came here for school, too,” Jim said, “I guess that’s New York for you… everyone’s from somewhere else.” Leonard learned Jim was a student too, studying international affairs, but Leonard was surprised to hear Jim was from Kansas. He struck Leonard as so brash and confident, he’d assumed the city had always been Jim’s home. Despite living here for months, Leonard still felt like a country bumpkin. He began to wonder how Jim fit in so seamlessly but, the more he spoke, the more Leonard realized that Jim was simply one of those men. Even if Jim was sent to Mars, Leonard thought, he’d probably find a way to fit in there, too.

They lingered a bit over the empty plates, until Leonard insisted that Carol let him help clear away the table. He scraped plates and stacked them neatly in the sink while Carol filled the percolator with coffee and retrieved a pie from the oven.

“Don’t get too excited, I didn’t make it myself,” she said, setting the pie on the counter. “I just wanted to warm it a bit. I hope you like it. I haven’t tried this bakery before, but I know you said this was your favorite.”

She cut a piece and lifted it onto a small plate, slices of yellow peach slipping out onto the white china. 

“I’m sure it’s not quite as good as what you’re used to,” she said, “but I know how hard it is to find certain things that make you feel like… well, like _home_.”

Leonard watched her cut two more pieces. 

“I… that’s…” he stammered. 

He paused and swallowed hard before he could speak again.

“Thank you,” he said softly, “very much.” She handed him a plate and her fingers brushed against his.

“You’re very welcome,” she said, then carried away the other two plates to where Jim was waiting.

#

Now, Leonard comes around the corner and approaches their building yet again. He thinks of how he felt when he left that night two weeks ago, a bit muddled by the whiskey Jim added to his coffee, but still clear-headed enough to know it wasn’t just liquor that warmed him inside. He felt... blessed, truly, for the first time in a long while, feeling God had sent him something he didn’t even know he needed and when he knelt to pray that night, his voice choked with gratitude.

_They’re my friends_ , he thinks with finality. He marches up to the door and rings 3B. After a moment, the door buzzes to let him in. As he climbs the stairs, the quietly spiteful voice slithers in from the back of his mind, murmuring, _you’re not going to know anyone there and you’ll probably be the oldest one there, poor old Leonard, hanging around by the punch bowl, not talking to anyone…_

“Father McCoy!” Jim exclaims as Leonard steps in to the apartment. His eyes take a moment to adjust to the dim room. “I’m so glad you could make it. Let me introduce you to everyone...”

Jim steers him by the elbow through the smoky, humid room, taking him from one cluster of people to the next. Leonard struggles to hear over the din as Jim introduces each person with a small, personal detail:Jim found Vasiliy hustling chess games in Washington Square Park, Barker is the classmate who introduced him to Carol, Mrs. Walsh makes the best meatloaf Jim's ever had. "And don't tell Carol I said that," he says, raising a finger in warning.

They make their way through the room to Jim’s makeshift bar and Leonard notes with relief there’s a pitcher of Manhattans there; not a punch bowl in sight.Jim loads a glass with ice then pours, dropping in a cherry before pressing it into Leonard’s hand.

“I should say hello to your wife,” Leonard says. “Where is she?”

Jim shrugs. “Kitchen? Sorry, excuse me,” he says, and walks off to greet someone else.

The furniture is rearranged, pushed to the periphery of the room and it’s only just barely enough room for everyone there, so Leonard gingerly moves his way through groups of people talking, laughing, dancing. 

Carol emerges from the kitchen with a plate in one hand and a drink in the other. She hands the plate to someone else and returns to the kitchen. Her cocktail dress fits close to her thighs, making her hips sway as she walks. Leonard has to force himself to remember who he is and look away.

He follows her back to the kitchen and finds her standing alone. She leans back against the counter and stares at something he can't see.

“Need a hand in here?” he asks.

She straightens up and runs her hands over the hips of her dress. “I didn’t realize you were here,” she says. “I’m so glad you could make it.”

“Thank you for inviting me,” he says automatically. “So, is there anything I can help you with?”

“No, thank you. I think I’ve got everything under control,” she says. She looks around the kitchen, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. “I’m just going to put these canapés on a plate and… actually, would you get Jim to fix me another gin and tonic?” She holds out her empty glass.

“Of course,” he says. “I’ll be right back.” She smiles and some of the tension ebbs from her face.

He makes his way back through the room to find Jim talking to an impossibly tall, dark-haired woman who’s smirking and rolling her eyes.

“Excuse me, Jim, your wife asked me to have you make her another,” Leonard says, rattling the ice in the empty glass. Jim excuses himself and the woman turns her attention to a severe-looking young man next to her.

“Translator for the State Department,” Jim says to Leonard as they walk away. “I’m trying to get her to recommend me for a position there once I graduate this spring but… I don’t know. I’ll keep working on her, though.” He narrows his eyes and something tells Leonard he’ll get his way.

Jim mixes the drink quickly and offers to take it to his wife himself. “Go on,” he tells Leonard. “Enjoy yourself.”

Leonard scans the room slowly before deciding to sit on the sofa. He watches people talk. He scrutinizes the ice melting in his glass and resists the urge to check his watch.

A very pregnant blonde drops in to the seat next to him.

“Are you the priest who married them?” she asks.

“I beg your pardon?” he says.

“Sorry, I was just wondering how you knew Carol and Jim,” she says. “I thought, seeing as this is their anniversary party, maybe you were the priest who married them.”

He shakes his head. “No, I’m just… just a friend.”

“Well, maybe you can be the one who gets to christen their baby instead,” she offers.

Leonard’s eyebrows raise.

“Oh! Not that I have any inside knowledge on that score,” she says. “I’m just saying, two whole years of marriage already… I mean, what are they waiting for, am I right? Shouldn’t you be encouraging them to be fruitful and multiply?” She laughs, loudly. Leonard picks up his glass and takes a long swallow. He examines the crowd, looking for an escape.

"It was nice meeting you, but you'll have to excuse me," he says. He makes his way across the room and stands next to Vasiliy, watching him whip some guy at chess.

"Damn!" the other man says. "Oh, begging your pardon, Father, but I just got creamed. It's no wonder their kind made it into space before we did, if that kid's any indication." He hooks his thumb at the young man, shakes his head, and leaves.

"May I?" Leonard asks, pulling out the empty chair.

The kid nods and gestures for him to take a seat. Leonard is rusty and Vasiliy mops the floor with him in short order. All Leonard can do is laugh and ask for a rematch, and the boy heartily agrees. They don't talk much, between the din of the party and the kid’s funny accent. 

In the middle of the second match, Leonard can tell exactly when he's just made a bad move because Vasiliy's face seems to light up beatifically from within. It puts Leonard in mind of those Orthodox icons, if one of those saints wore a boyish grin instead. When Vasiliy beats him a third time, Leonard knows he’s had enough. He thanks the kid with a handshake and slips away to the bathroom.

It’s an oddly intimate thing, he thinks, being in someone else’s bathroom, surrounded by their toothbrushes and towels, looking at your face in the same little mirror above the sink where they see their own each morning. He refrains from peeking into their medicine cabinet but lets his eyes slide over everything else: cotton balls, aftershave, a tube of toothpaste neatly folded at the end. A jar of cold cream sits on a shelf: Pond’s, the same kind his mother always used. He washes his hands and runs a damp hand over his face. The liquor has gone to his head more quickly than he expected. He checks his watch. Nearly 11 o’clock. He should head home.

He spots Jim, deep in conversation with the pretty translator. She’s no longer stonewalling him, so Leonard decides it’s best not to interrupt. He ought to say goodbye to Carol, though. She’s not in the living room and when he checks the kitchen, he finds a couple, pressed close together in the dark. Leonard hears more than he sees, a soft wet smack of mouths, a muffled gasp.

He starts to back away but they spring apart at the sight of him and scurry out, red-faced and apologizing. He’s about to leave the kitchen when he catches sight of a slender hand setting an empty glass on the sill just outside the window.

“Hello?” he asks.

“Yes? Out here,” Carol says. On the floor under the sill, he sees a pair of discarded high-heeled shoes. He leans out the window. The May night is cool and smells of rain. Carol is on the fire escape, sitting against the building’s brick facade, her stocking feet crossed primly at the ankles.

“Is everything okay?” she asks, struggling to sit upright.

“I was about to ask you the same thing,” he says.

“I just…” she begins. She relaxes, letting her head loll back against the building. “I needed some air. So many people...”

“I didn’t take you for the reclusive type.” He rests his elbows on the sill to see her better.

“I’m not. Not really, anyway. I like people. I like being _around_ people...” she says. She inches away from him. “There’s room for you to come out and join me, if you’d like. Or are you afraid of heights?”

“It’s not the height I’m afraid of, it’s hitting the pavement from said height that bothers me,” he says, edging carefully out and easing himself down next to her. He glances down at the alley below, then shuts his eyes and turns away. Carol chuckles quietly. She slips her arm under his and presses it close to her side.

“I’ve got you,” she says. “You’re safe.” His heart thuds in his chest. Nothing about this feels safe.

“I like it up here,” Carol says. “It’s quiet. The view’s not great but I like it. Although sometimes the people in… that apartment there forget to close their curtains and that’s a show you don’t want to see.” Her finger sways slightly as she points to the offending party’s window. The warmth of her body seeps into his skin and Leonard wonders if it's safe to disentangle his arm from hers.

“Do you like it here?” she asks, suddenly. “Here in New York, I mean?”

“I… I don’t know,” he says. “Sometimes. It's just… I don’t really know anyone here.”

“You know _me_ ,” she says softly. “And… Jim.”

He nods. “And my brothers at the rectory. And Margaret, I guess, from the diner. It’s just—it’s so different here, I suppose. I grew up in a place where I knew everyone and they all knew me, for better or for worse.” 

“Oh, but that’s what I love about living here,” she says. “Almost as soon as I got here, I realized no one knew me. They didn’t know who I was or where I’d been and that meant I could be anything I wanted, and do anything I wanted, without ever having to worry what people might think.” Her fists curl and her shoulders push back. 

For a moment, Leonard feels her body tense like a coiling spring, ready to launch at something unseen. But then, she takes her arm out from under his and draws her legs up close to her body, folding her arms atop her knees. The zipper on the back of her dress glints under the streetlight.

She rests her head on her arms and looks at him. “There must be something you really like about it here,” she says. “One of the museums, or Saint Patrick’s Cathedral, or, or something.”

He searches his memories for an answer. “I like walking in Riverside Park, near the river,” he offers. “And… I’ve seen Grant’s Tomb, that’s nice.”

“Those are all practically within sight of here,” she says. “You _have_ seen the rest of the city, haven’t you?”

“Well… I did go to see Saint Patrick’s when I first got here,” he says. “But when I switched at 42nd Street, I guess I got on the wrong train because I ended up going in the completely wrong direction.”

“Where did you go?” she asks.

He shrugs. “Queens?”

She presses her fingers to her mouth. 

“It’s okay, you can laugh,” he says. 

She laughs so hard her shoulders shake and the sound bounces off the buildings, but it’s not unkind. He tries to think of something, anything, to keep her laughing.

“I asked for directions but somehow that only made things worse. I had to call the rectory and ask one of the brothers to come and get me.”

Her laughter trails off into a sigh and she brushes at her eyes with her fingers. “I’m so sorry. That must have been terrible for you. Did you at least get to see the cathedral?”

He shakes his head. “Since then, my own two legs get me everywhere I need to go.”

“What a shame. It’s… really very lovely there. You should see it,” she says. She frowns and flicks a stray leaf off the fire escape. “Would you… I mean, I could take you there some time, if you still wanted to see it…”

“Really?” he asks.

“Of course. Do you get a day off?”

“Fridays, usually, if nothing else comes up.”

“Okay, then, Friday,” she says. “Just let me know when and… we’ll go. Okay?” She pats the back of his hand and grins.

“Okay,” he says and grins back. “I, um, I actually came out here to say goodnight. I was about to leave but I didn’t want to go without saying goodbye...”

“Oh God,” she says. “What time is it?”

“Probably just past eleven.”

“I’m a terrible hostess,” she says. “I need to get back inside.”

Leonard goes back through the window with considerably less ease than he had getting out. He turns and extends his hand to Carol. She grips it tight as she climbs through, hobbled by the tight fit of her dress. She’s still holding his hand as her feet touch the floor, but before she lets go, she stumbles over the shoes laying there. 

Without thinking, he reaches out to grab her before she falls, catching her around the waist, his other hand still holding hers. She grips his arm and looks into his face, lips parted in surprise. He’s close enough to smell her perfume and the gin she’s been drinking. Her hand slides up to his shoulder and his arm tightens reflexively around her. His head dips toward her, seeming to move of its own volition, and she leans closer, her hip pressing against his thigh.

Someone calls out to her from the other room. “Carol? You in the kitchen?”

She recoils with a gasp, like someone jolted awake. She staggers back, nearly tripping over the shoes again. There’s a look in her eyes that Leonard can’t quite read, but it seems to him to be something close to horror.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, then she turns her back on him and walks away.

Leonard stays behind, trying to comprehend what happened and what didn’t happen. He’s not sure how long he stands there. Then, without saying goodbye to anyone, he leaves the party, closing the door softly behind him.


	10. Jim

Jim lifts his chin and drags the razor along his cheek. From the bedroom, still no sound. He holds the razor under the running water then taps it against the side of the sink _. I guess she really isn’t coming to church with me_ , he thinks.

In the mirror, he watches his jaw clench and flex as he wipes away the last of the shaving soap. He knew something was going on with Carol, because he knew people. He could read them and know their next move even before they did, but what good was that if he couldn’t figure out his own goddamn wife.

He takes a shirt from the closet and sits on the bed next to her while he buttons it. “You need anything? Aspirin, maybe?” he asks. “Something I can get you from the drugstore?”

“No, thank you,” she says. “I’m sure I’ll feel better later.”

He kisses her forehead and it’s as cool as ever, not at all feverish. 

Two nights ago, after their last party guest left, Carol closed the door and rested her forehead against the closed door for a moment. Jim switched the record player off and began to collect plates and glasses from around the room.

“Oh, just leave it,” she said, leaning against the arm of the sofa. “It can wait until tomorrow.”

He put a few glasses in the sink, and as he walked past her, she grabbed him by the wrist. She stood, slipping an arm around his waist and pulling her body close. He leaned in and kissed her absently, thinking mostly of how tired he was. She took his face in her hands and kissed him hard, pressing the length of her body to his.

In all the time they had been married, Jim could probably count on one hand the times she’d come on to him like this. Not that he minded seeing this aggressive side of her. Not really. But still. She pulled away abruptly and turned her back on him.

“Undo me,” she said. He tugged at the zipper and her dress parted, revealing the pale expanse of her back. His mouth grazed between her shoulder blades, while she peeled the dress away, pushing it to the floor in a heap, leaving her there in nothing but a black slip.

He stepped away, toward their bedroom, but she shook her head and drew him toward the couch, pulling him down on top of her. Jim settled familiarly between her thighs, watched her squirming as he traced the crest of her hipbone. Her fists clenched the front of his shirt.

Her eyes would always close when they were this close and Jim had grown to love watching her face, the way her expression changed as she let any self-consciousness go. But that night, her eyes were open, wide, not looking at him but watching the fabric of his shirt twist in her hands.

“Please, I just...” she trailed off as she released his shirt and swiftly unbuckled his belt, pushing his pants out of the way. She lifted her hips to meet his as he entered her, wet and silken, and the noise she made was something close to a sob.

As he moved above her, she wrapped her arms around his neck, clinging to him like someone rescued at sea. After he was spent, she wasn’t stilled. She took his face in her hands and kissed him again and again. Finally, she pressed her forehead to his and said, “I love you, you know.”

He drew back to see her face, and found it contorted with unhappiness. He kissed the scowl between her eyebrows.

“I know,” he said. “Of course I know.”

It stuck with Jim even now, days later _. I love you, you know_.

He sifts through her words as he walks, trying to pull apart what she meant, but when he reaches the threshold of the church, he leaves his thoughts outside, to pick up again when he leaves. He sees a few parishioners he knows and greets nearly all of them by name.

When he and Carol had first moved to the neighborhood, Carol insisted they attend services at the Cathedral of St. John the Divine but Jim found it too big, too cold. The Church of Notre Dame was smaller, but still not as small as he would have liked. His ideal church, the one against which he compared all others, was the small church just beyond the naval base when he was stationed in Naples. The base had its own ordained Catholic chaplains, holding services in an unadorned chapel, their Mass wedged in after the Baptists and before the Presbyterians—but something always felt missing to Jim on those Sundays mornings, sitting with a dozen other enlisted men.

One Sunday, he left the base and began walking toward the sound of church bells, shading his eyes from the morning sun as he looked between the rooftops for steeples. At last he rounded a corner and saw people filing into church. He slipped in as the altar boys were pulling the ancient wooden doors shut. 

He sat in the very last row, closest to the door, feeling as if at any moment he might be asked to leave. An old woman sitting next to him snuffled and honked into her handkerchief. In the pew ahead of them, a young boy turned at the sound, then gaped at Jim and his uniform. Jim gave a small salute which the boy returned, pulling himself onto his knees, his back straight, his face serious. The elderly woman pointed and scolded the boy quietly until his mother forcibly turned him around, just as the church’s pipe organ ceased. The service began in Latin and continued in Italian, but that hardly mattered to Jim. He let the sound of humanity surround him and he was content.

He returned every week for months, always sitting the same back row with the old woman. She had an enormous nose and tuft of wiry black hair on her chin. To Jim, she looked like the witch who offers Snow White the poisoned apple, which had terrified him as a child. After a while, the woman would greet Jim as he came in, chattering at him at length in Italian after Mass, patting the back of his hand dotingly or pinching his arm for emphasis. He could never pick out more than a few words here and there: _bello_ , handsome; _mangiare_ , eat.

She was the only one who ever spoke to him, although there were probably a dozen others who looked close to his age. He considered approaching the trio of girls who whispered to each other behind their hands whenever he arrived. He was afraid if he tried too hard to ingratiate himself, it would only push people further away. Instead, he waited and kept his place, hoping one of them would finally break away and approach him as he stood in the churchyard after Mass.

Looking back on it now, he wonders if perhaps there was another version of himself in a world where he had walked up to those girls. Maybe he would have married one of them, brought her to America and to church with him each week. How beautiful all the Italian girls were, he remembers. The men, too.

After Mass, he waits for his turn to enter the confessional, insisting several others take the booth before him. He sits, examining his conscience, as is expected before asking forgiveness. He resists the urge to rub his sweating palms on his pants and wipes them on the handkerchief from his pocket instead. He loosens his tie, straightens it again, and reminds himself that in the church, there is always absolution for everyone, every sinner, even him.

Finally, when the church is nearly empty, he enters the booth and kneels before the closed screen with his damp hands folded together. When the screen snaps opens, Jim’s gut lurches. He waits for the priest’s litany to finish before he speaks.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” Jim says automatically. “It has been two weeks since my last confession.I accuse myself of the following sins...” He draws a deep breath and feels his shirt clinging to his back.

“I... engaged in carnal acts with someone other than my wife,” he says. The priest _hmms_ at him and Jim continues. “It happened once. The Friday before last.”

“Do you intend to do it again?” the priest asks.

“No, Father. We were strangers; we didn’t even learn each other’s names.”

“Mmm, I see,” the priest says and shifts on the bench, leaning in closer, the smell of Old Spice coming through the grille.

“Well,” the priest says, peering at Jim, “you appear to be a good-looking lad. These things are bound to happen. But... as a husband, it’s your duty as to resist, as much as possible.” The priest jabs a warning finger toward him.

“I know, Father.”

“Have you made it up to your wife? Brought her flowers or chocolates or whatever it is she likes best?” The priest settles back in his seat.

“Yes, I… well, when I got home that night, I showed my love for her,” he says.

“Very well,” the priest says. “As for your penance... you must reflect on your sin and pray for forgiveness from the Blessed Virgin with ten Hail Marys, an Our Father, and a Glory Be.”

“Yes, Father.” Jim’s composure begins to coolly drift back, like opening a window in an overheated room.

“Now, have you more to confess?”

Jim rattles off a small list of lesser sins—he’d told a few small lies, used the Lord’s name in vain, been angry—and the priest absolves him of them all, blesses him, and sends him on his way.

When he leaves the church, he returns to his earlier thoughts, still hearing Carol say _I love you, you know_ as if he might no longer know. Why would she…?

_Maybe she knows_ , he thinks.

Jim stops short. A woman behind him nearly rams the back of his legs with a baby carriage and mutters as she wheels around him.

_Maybe she knows_. He loosens his tie, unbuttons his collar, suddenly desperate for air.

She couldn’t, though, could she? How would she find out? He’s discreet, he never brings home phone numbers or souvenirs, most times he doesn’t even give them his real name. There’s no way, he decides at last. She couldn’t, couldn’t possibly know.

When he finds his feet again, he walks to the corner and buys nearly everything the elderly flower vendor has: irises, tulips, roses, lilies. As he pays, he watches the bills in his outstretched hand, relieved to see his hands are as steady as ever.


	11. Carol

After Jim is gone, she climbs out of bed, leaving it unmade behind her. 

In the kitchen, she drops two slices of bread into the toaster and extracts a precious jar of Marmite from the very back of the kitchen cupboard. The jar needs to last until her mother can send another from home. Some days, it’s enough for Carol to open the jar and inhale deeply but this morning, she needs more.

She spreads the Marmite over the buttered toast, just a thin sheen over the surface, making sure the entire slice is evenly covered. The first bite stings her throat with saltiness, tasting of yeast and childhood. She means to slow down, to savor each bite, but she eats both slices standing at the kitchen counter. She frowns at the disgraceful mess she’s made and brushes crumbs from her mouth and the front of her pajamas. She sweeps the counter clean with her hand and dusts the debris into the sink before putting the kettle on for tea.

Maybe she should have gone to church, she thinks, but then she looks around the kitchen and feels queasy. If he was there today, what was she supposed to say? She sees her stupid shoes, still under the window where she left them that night. She carries them away and flings them under the bed with a clatter.

In the living room, Carol picks up the heavy black telephone from its little table and carries it to the couch. She sits and waits for it to ring. When it does, she flinches. She waits for it to ring at least twice before picking it up and calmly saying hello.

“Hello, sweetie,” Christine says. “Okay then… what’s all the fuss about, that you needed me to call you at exactly eleven on a Sunday morning?”

Carol laughs. The suburbs haven’t dulled her matter-of-fact manner in the slightest.

“What, no social niceties?” Carol says. “No ‘Hi, how are you?’ et cetera?”

Christine snorts. “I have a husband off playing golf and a child finally napping, thank God. Niceties are dull,” she says. “So, tell me what’s got you in such a lather?”

“Oh, Jo…” Carol sighs. “This is just between us, right? Swear it?”

From the other end of the line, a muffled _mmm-hmm_ and the clicking of a cigarette lighter, followed by a soft exhale. “Honestly, I swear it.”

Carol curls the phone cord around her finger, pressing on her fingertip as it turns mottled and red. “I think I might have almost kissed someone else a couple nights ago.”

“That’s a lot of extenuating,” Christine says. “You _think_ you _almost_ kissed someone? What does that mean?”

“Oh… I don’t know,” Carol says. In her mind, the details are fogged by liquor and it takes a second to get the words out. “We had a party here Friday night and we were just talking. And, I guess I’d had too much to drink because I tripped and he caught me…” Her eyes squeeze shut.

“So? Did you do it or not?”

“No! For starters, I am married and even if I weren’t, the man is a priest.”

“I _see_.” Christine laughs quietly. “You didn’t kiss him, but you wanted to, is that it?”

Carol groans and covers her face with her hand. “Maybe. A little. I don’t know.”

“Is he attractive?”

“Not my type but yes, I suppose so, in his own way. Dark hair. Broad shoulders. Does it matter?”

“And a priest, you said?” Christine asks.

Carol’s tea has gone cold and she grimaces as she swallows it. “Hmm, yes, he is.”

“But you didn’t kiss him?”

“No, I didn’t. Are you even listening to me?”

“I _am_ listening,” Christine says. “I’m just not sure what the big deal is.”

Carol drops the cup back into the saucer and tea slops over the side. “‘Not sure what the big deal is’? Jo, I almost kissed another man!”

“The point is, you didn’t, though.” Christine speaks calmly, like she’s talking to a small child. “Carol, listen, having a crush it’s... it’s not a big deal.”

Carol can’t stop herself from parroting Christine’s words. “‘Not a big deal’? I’m married now. We’re not teenage co-eds with a crush on a professor.”

“Oh, honey, listen.” Christine sounds tired. “You haven’t done anything. You’re not hurting anyone with a crush. And, look, maybe… it can be a good thing.”

Carol scoffs but Christine continues. “I’m going to level with you. And again, strictly between us, right?”

“Of course.” Carol instinctively leans forward.

“I have this... little crush on the manager at the supermarket,” Christine says. “He’s handsome and we flirt a little. But it’s not like I’m going to run away with him or meet him later, it’s just…” She sighs. “It’s _fun_ , you know? It’s just a little bit of fun.And, I don’t know, it makes my day a little better.”

“Oh, Jo—” Carol says.

“Don’t you ‘oh, Jo’ me. I haven’t finished what I’m saying yet. So, this man and I, we flirt a bit and it’s all in good fun—and then I get to walk away from it feeling more, you know, desirable.” Her voice drops an octave on the word and Carol laughs. “But can you understand what I mean? I come home from the market and I feel marvelous,” Christine says. “Like I’ve lost five pounds and I’m wearing a new dress. Didn’t you feel that way about your priest?”

“Oh God no, I felt awful,” says Carol. “I practically ran away from him when it happened.” She doesn’t tell Christine that after she downed two more cocktails in rapid succession, trying blot it all out.

“All I’m saying is, you’re not actually doing anything, right?” Christine asks. “And besides, I bet no one ever flirts with priests, the poor things.”

“Well, probably not this one. He’s got such a scowl on his face sometimes.” Carol suppresses a grin.

“See?” Christine says. “You’re practically doing the Lord’s work. Saint Carol, I can see it now.”

The conversation drifts into what Janice may name her baby. Jo says Tammy, if it’s a girl, otherwise Dennis. She asks if Carol is going to throw a party when she and Jim graduate. She says no but her parents are flying in from England to be there. Then Christine has to hang up—Junior’s awake and she needs to start preparing Sunday dinner—and Carol is alone with her thoughts again.

She dresses and makes the bed. Then she opens all the windows in the small apartment which still smells of smoke and spilled beer. When she opens the kitchen window that leads out to the fire escape, she sits on the windowsill for a while, thinking about what Jo said. _A crush, no big deal._

From a scientific standpoint, she thinks, it makes sense. If you marry a man and live with him day after day, your body would become conditioned to that set of stimuli. Therefore, she thinks, it stands to reason that, in time, it would no longer elicit the same response. Not that you love him any less; of course not. 

But what happened in this kitchen, when a different man wrapped his arm around her waist... well, it was just a basic, physiological response: adrenal glands, flooding her system, making her heart pound like that. No different than riding the Cyclone at Coney Island, she thinks, and really, probably far safer.

She switches on the record player and lays the needle on side 2 of _Patsy Cline_ , and Carol’s voice is thin and reedy as she sings along. She makes a platter of sandwiches for lunch then fills the percolator. She twirls as she crosses the kitchen to put the coffee away, skirt flaring around her knees.

When she hears Jim at the door, she turns the music off and almost skips across the room to open it. She finds him flushed and sweaty and carrying an enormous bundle of flowers wrapped in white paper.

“There’s my girl,” he says, kissing her. “Happy anniversary, sweetheart.”

She hums softly as she kisses him again. “You didn’t have to do this for me,” she says. She takes the flowers into the kitchen and busies herself with them, divvying and arranging them into smaller bunches.

Jim stands behind her, puts his hands on her hips as she works. “Who else am I going to buy flowers for,” he asks, “if not my best girl?”

She stops arranging the flowers, turns and wraps her arms around his waist. “I’m sorry I didn’t come with you today,” she says. Her fingers trace the length of his spine.

“It’s alright,” he says. “Do you feel better?” She rests her forehead against his neck. At his unbuttoned collar, the warm smell of his skin meets her.

She closes her eyes and breathes in. “Yes,” she says. “Much better.”

#

She shuffles the pages of her final draft back into order and clips them together. She flattens the cover page: “Experimental Investigations of Astrophysical Synchrotron Radiation; Senior Thesis: Carol Kirk.” Finished. The last piece of work she needed to do. Possibly ever. 

Jim had tried to convince her this was cause for celebration but she insisted that would be premature. After handing it in, she still had to present and defend her thesis to an official colloquium of the astronomy department. Then it would finally be over.

When the war was on and her father was away, her mother took her and her sister Florence out of London to their family estate in Gloucestershire. Carol was very small at the time, just six years old, and for a while, she lived in a world of only women. Her mother, her sister, and her grandmother all lived together there, along with a few servants. Richardson, the groundskeeper, was the only man around, not called up for service because he was too old and blind in one eye. When Grandfather came back from abroad, Carol was afraid of him, partly because she didn’t know him and partly because he had enormously bushy eyebrows that looked like caterpillars to her. Her mother made sure she said _good morning_ and _good night_ to him every day, but otherwise she stayed away.

One wet March day, Carol was tired of being indoors. Florence only wanted to play with her dolls and Carol hated dolls. She ran and skipped through the house, despite being told to stop several times by her mother. As she galloped through the great hall on an imaginary horse, she knocked over a small black jug which smashed to bits on the tile floor. 

Her mother was at her side in an instant, grabbing her arm without a word and pulling her towards the study. Carol knew she was going to be punished. When they entered the room, her grandfather sat behind his big desk looking at a book that covered most of its surface. Carol’s mother explained what had happened. He scowled. 

“Yes, yes,” he said. “Leave it to me.”

Carol’s mother jabbed a finger at a nearby chair. 

“Sit,” she hissed, then left the room, closing the heavy wooden door behind her. 

Carol climbed into the tall chair and waited. She tried very hard not to fidget. She wondered if her grandfather would send her away, send her and her sister and her mother back to London where bombs would surely fall on them. She started to cry, fat teardrops rolling off her face and landing in her lap. 

“Come here, girl,” he said, without looking up from his book. She climbed down and stood next to his chair. On the desk was an enormous atlas, spread out to show the countries around the Mediterranean. 

“Tell me,” he said. “Where is Greece?”

Carol looked at him, wondering if he could really not find it himself. She reached out and touched the word on the map:  GREECE .

“And Athens?” he asked.

Her eyes skimmed over the map until she found that as well, not as big, next to a circle with a star inside it. 

“That,” he said, tapping the map, “is where the drinking vessel which you just destroyed came from.” He turned to look at her with his unnerving eyebrows and Carol shrank away. The vessel, he told her, had probably been given to someone as a gift during one of the Athenian festivals honoring Dionysus and if she had looked, she would have seen that it depicted a baby Eros pulling a toy cart. 

“Imagine that,” he said. “To survive for more than a thousand years, to be brought from Greece to Gloucestershire, only to meet an ignominious end, carelessly smashed by a naughty little girl on a rainy Thursday.”

Carol burst into tears. 

He cleared this throat and waited. She kept crying. He drew a handkerchief from his pocket and offered it to her. When she began to quiet, he opened his desk drawer and took out a small paper bag of boiled sweets.

“Don’t tell anyone I keep these in here,” he said, offering the bag to her. “Which one is your favorite?”

She wiped her face on her sleeve then examined the candy. She pulled out a pear drop.

“Those are my favorites, too,” he said. “Although I often wonder how they make them taste like pears.” 

She looked up at him. The eyebrows were still terrifying but the rest of his face was kind. 

“Thank you,” she said, looking down. “I’m sorry I broke your…” She tried to remember the word he had used. 

“Chous,” he said. He took a piece of paper from a corner of his desk and wrote something. “ _Chous_ ,” he repeated, then showed her what he’d written: χοές. 

Carol stared. The letters looked familiar but they made no sense to her. If she could just puzzle it out, she thought. Carol’s grandfather began to laugh and she thought maybe he was playing a joke on her. He laughed until his face was red and she began to grow angry.

“Oh!” he exclaimed. “Never have I seen such an intense look of consternation on such a small face.” He pointed to each letter as he read them off to her. “ _Chi. Omicron. Epsilon. Sigma_. It’s a different alphabet than the one you clearly already know.” He handed her the paper and she touched the letters the way he had. 

“Come closer,” he said. “And I’ll show you.” 

He wrote the entire Greek alphabet for her, naming each letter as he did so. Then he gave her the paper and told her to go play. A few days later, he sent for her to come back to his study. She thought she was in trouble again and her mind raced through a host of possible misdeeds. She slipped into the quiet room and stood by the door.

“Come here,” he said. She felt herself wanting to shrink away but she crossed the room and stood next to him. He picked up a scrap of note paper and made an X on the paper. 

“Tell me,” he said. “What is this?”

“An X?” she asked. He arched an enormous eyebrow and she scrambled for the right answer. “I mean, a… a _chi_?” 

“Well done,” he murmured, and she flushed with pride. 

He called her into his study every few days. Each time, he quizzed her on what he’d taught her before and then he’d show her something new. He took pieces of his archaeological collection out to show her and then made her point on the map to where the object had been found: China, India, Peru. She was often bored by these lessons and wished she could return to whatever he’d pulled her away from, but she liked the attention. Before long, he liked him as well. 

After a few months, her family was ready to return to London. She could barely contain her excitement as he drove them to the train station. _Home!_ She was going home at last! 

On the platform, her grandfather stooped down to speak to her while her mother ordered two porters around.

“Well,” he said. “I suppose this is goodbye.” She nodded. He held his hand out and she placed her small hand in his. 

“Remember all the things I’ve taught you,” he said. “But you won’t stop there, will you? You’re a very clever little girl.” 

He took a paper bag from his coat and tucked it into her pocket. Then he gave her hand a little squeeze and stood up to walk Carol to the train. 

She waved to him as the train pulled away then continued watching as he dwindled away into the distance. When she sat back into her seat, the paper bag in her pocket rustled. She’d already forgotten about it. She slipped it from her pocket and peeked in, shielding it from Florence’s sight. 

_Pear drops!_ An entire bag, just for her. A lump formed in her throat. 

“Mummy,” Carol asked. “Will Grandfather come to visit us soon?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” her mother said. “Why would he come all that way after we’ve just seen him?” Carol nodded and slipped the bag back into her pocket. When she got home, she ate the pear drops slowly, savoring each one, over the course of weeks and then months. When they became too sticky to eat any longer, she held onto them, a fossilized lump of sugar at the back of a drawer. One day, she found a thread of ants running across her desk, and even then, she hesitated before throwing the bag away.

When her grandfather died, his will left generous trusts for both Carol and Florence, his only grandchildren, to be given to them at the age of twenty-three. But an additional trust was left solely for Carol, “that she may drink deeply from the cup of knowledge, with a thirst that can never be slaked.” It would cover the costs and expenses of Carol’s tuition at any institution of higher learning she chose.

When the time came, the trust covered all of Carol’s tuition at Columbia. Even now, there were still enough funds remaining for her to go to graduate school—or even obtain a doctorate—if she wanted. 

But all that’s done now. _Finished at last_. Maybe Jim was right, maybe she should celebrate, but she doesn’t feel like it.

She slips her thesis into a manila envelope and bends the brass fastener, pressing hard with her thumbs. She could take it to her advisor’s office now and leave it in the pigeonhole marked with his name but she’d only lie awake for hours that night, endlessly concocting scenarios in which her work gets lost, stolen, thrown away. No, the only thing to do is to wait until office hours and then place the envelope directly in his hands.

She sinks back into the couch, wondering how to fill the hours between now and the moment she hands her paper in. Her eye rests on the telephone for moment then flicks away. 

_Tomorrow’s Friday,_ she thinks. Did Father McCoy even remember? How had she left things last week?

She tries to reconstruct being on the fire escape but only fragments emerge. His white collar looked yellow in the streetlight. He was afraid of heights. He hasn’t seen St. Patrick’s Cathedral and she said she would take him some Friday, on his day off. He smiled at her and a curved line formed at either side of his mouth, like a pair of parentheses, and she thought if she kissed him, not that she ever would, but if she did, she would want it to be right there, by the corner of his mouth, just inside that bracketed space.

Did she say she would call him or that he would call her? Could he be waiting to hear from her right now? No, that doesn’t seem right. She doesn’t have any way to reach him, now that she thinks of it, although she could pick up the phone, have the operator connect her to the rectory, then ask to speak to him. In her head, she rehearses the conversation:

_Hello, may I speak to Father McCoy?_

_And whom may I ask who is calling? What is this regarding? Is this a personal matter? Is he expecting your call? No, I’m sorry, he can’t speak to you. He doesn’t want to speak to you. Please don’t call again. Goodbye._

She frowns. Maybe he doesn’t even remember her saying she would go with him. She rubs her knuckles against her bottom lip. 

_Or maybe_ , she thinks, _maybe I made such an ass of myself in the kitchen that he doesn’t want to remembe_ r. He kept her from sprawling across the floor and she thanked him sinking into his embrace like a drunken debutante. 

_A priest._ She feels a little sick. _God, what was I thinking?_

She reopens the manila envelope and takes her thesis back out. _Maybe there’s something I can still fix,_ she thinks. She unclips the papers to read them for the last time, but her eyes keep skipping off the page, to stare at the phone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (The extensive flashback in this chapter is new to this version; I wrote it after hearing editors weren't connecting with the Carol character.)


	12. Leonard

It’s after midnight when he wakes. He almost never remembers his dreams but when he does, they’re dreams everyone has. He’s taking a test he hasn’t studied for or driving a car without brakes. But nearly every night for the past week, he’s dreamt of Jocelyn, his childhood sweetheart. He grits his teeth and shifts gingerly, taking care not to brush against the hard, aching throb between his legs. 

She had always been there, hovering at the periphery of his acquaintances, the friend of a sister or the sister of a friend. And then the summer he turned sixteen, he was out with his friends, drinking pilfered whiskey and swimming in the reservoir, when she dropped down next to him at the water’s edge. At first, he didn’t turn to face her, pretending to be absorbed by the sight of someone swinging far over the surface of the lake before vanishing into the water. She nudged him and when he turned to look, she smiled wide enough to show the little gap between her front teeth.

“Hi,” was all she said. But Leonard was gone, already far gone. He sat there for an eternity, hoping his wet hair wasn’t plastered to his head in that funny way, wondering what she was doing there, sitting next to him, of all people, _him_.

“Hi,” he said at last.

That night, they all went home in some guy’s jalopy, something close to a dozen kids, piled into the front seat and back. Leonard wedged himself in the back seat and just as he was about to pull the door shut, Jocelyn climbed in after him, settling onto his lap, putting her arm around his shoulders, as if they did this all the time. She was heavy on his thighs, and so warm, the heat of her seeping in through his clothes.

With her back to the crowd, she filled Leonard’s field of vision, her chestnut hair spilling down one shoulder and into the shadowy cleft of her dress. Her head was tipped toward him, almost touching his. When the car drove over a pothole, she yelped as her head thumped against the roof.

“Are… are you hurt?” he asked, at last finding the courage to look up into her face. She rubbed the top of her head and grinned. She leaned close to him and the smell of Jean Nate powder on her warm skin enfolded him.

Suddenly, they were kissing, although he couldn't say which of them had started it. It just happened. She wasn’t the first girl he’d kissed, but for the first time he kissed a girl with a desperate need for more. He held her stiffly around her waist, his need to pull her closer fighting with his fear of having his greedy hands slapped away. When the car pulled up in front of her house, she whispered _meet me here tomorrow at eight_ in his ear and he was so unglued, he barely remembered to nod.

He pulled up in his grandfather’s rusty Ford at the stroke of eight and was just about to cut the engine when she swung open the passenger door and climbed in. It would be how all their dates began. He’d show up at eight o’clock Saturday night to find her already waiting for him. He never went to the door to ask for her, never had to make small talk with her parents.He took her to the movies the first couple of times until eventually he realized all she really wanted to was kiss him. _Him_ , Leonard McCoy, who’d only just shed his baby fat last year, the same year he’d grown six inches and a downy fluff of chest hair.

They drove out to the reservoir, off the dirt road, and parked in among the trees. He always shut the engine off but left the radio on. It was so quiet he felt for sure she would hear his heart pounding. 

She liked to sidle up next to him and nestle under his arm, entwining her fingers in his. She’d rest her head on his shoulder and just before she’d tip her head up to be kissed, she’d sigh, a long, shivery sound that made the blood rush to his groin. They kissed for what seemed like hours, until the windows fogged and their lips were chafed. They never talked much. They went to different schools, had only a few friends in common. But each week, after a first flurry of kisses, he’d wrap his arms around her and hide his face in her dark hair. _I missed you,_ he’d whisper.

The hours from one Saturday night to the next were endless to Leonard. If he was alone for even a moment, his thoughts flowed naturally, directly to Jocelyn… what she might be doing, if she was thinking of him, if she missed him. Sometimes as he showered, he pictured her, imagined that his hands were hers, tried to hear what little noises she might make in his ear if she wrapped her hand around his shaft and stroked him. At least once, he closed his eyes and envisioned her so precisely that he called her name as he came, spilling hotly over his hand. He barely recovered his wits when his mother knocked on the bathroom door, wanting to know what was taking so long.

As the summer passed into fall, all Leonard wanted was to be with her. He thought of nothing but her, lying in bed for hours each night, wondering what it would be like to hear the soft cadence of her breath as she drifted into sleep. He wanted them to finally, completely belong to each other.

One Saturday, he drew up all his courage and slipped one hand under her skirt as they kissed. Each time they shifted or squirmed, his fingers inched further up her leg. At the top of her thigh, he could feel the heat radiating from her. She seized his wrist, not pulling him away but simply arresting him in place. He let his thumb brush against the damp cotton of her underwear and they both gasped.

“Marry me,” he panted. “I love you so much and, I just, I need you, I need to be with you.” She grabbed him by the front of his shirt and pulled him down onto her, murmuring _yes, yes_. She let him climb between her parted thighs and they pressed hard against each other, still fully clothed, while Leonard’s blood sang _soon, soon, soon._

On a Friday morning, he emptied his schoolbag of books and papers and filled it with clean clothes. He took his toothbrush and comb from the bathroom then wrote his mother a note, insisting that she not worry, he would be back soon. He propped the note by his mother’s bedside, assuring himself she would see it immediately upon waking, and crept out in silence.

The wedding itself was over in just minutes. They signed papers and hurried through the brief legal vows. Leonard had willed himself not to let his voice crack as he said _I do_. They kissed each other for the first time as man and wife with the justice of the peace and his jowly-faced face wife the only ones there to witness it.

Leonard drove them to the fishing cabin his family owned. Jocelyn sat next to him, her hand warm on his knee. He put one arm around her shoulders and steered the Ford truck with the other. The wind blew through their hair, and he knew this was the happiest he’d ever been in his sixteen years on Earth.

When they arrived, he lit a fire and she unpacked the food they’d bought. They found it hard to look at each other, waiting for the sun to go down, waiting to go to bed. They pushed uneaten food around their plates and left the greasy dishes in the sink; they hadn’t remembered to buy soap.

Once it was dark, she made him face away while they undressed for bed. He hadn’t remembered to bring pajamas so he stripped to his undershorts and climbed into the cold bed, taking care not to look at her as she stood by the foot of the bed. She turned out the kerosene lantern and slid in beside him. For a moment, they laid on their backs, staring up at the ceiling, watching the shadows the dying fire made. She slipped her hand into his and squeezed. He rolled toward her but his eyes hadn’t adjusted to the dark yet and his head knocked into hers. She laughed quietly and he kissed her sweet face, her cheeks, her chin, her nose.

“I love you,” he said. He kissed her mouth gently and let his forehead rest against hers, hoping she could feel how much he meant it.

“I love you, too,” she said. 

He felt almost delirious with ecstasy. He kissed her hard, as though he wanted to devour her, consume her. Her body was so lithe and yielding under his hands, with just the soft material of her nightgown between them. He began to tug at her nightgown until at last he’d pulled it up and off, over her head.

She was more beautiful than he imagined, creamy skin, with freckles at her collarbones. He gently drew her hands away as they covered her nakedness then kissed her just over her heart, before moving on to the swell of her small breasts. He traced the outline of her rosy nipple with his fingertip, watching it perk at his touch before kissing it, and the little gasp she made emboldened him. His hand slid over her trembling stomach, coming to rest on her hip. He pulled her closer, rubbing himself against her other hip, the friction almost unbearable. 

He toyed with the elastic of her underwear for a moment then slipped his hand under the waistband. His hand enveloped the soft thatch of hair, making his fingers damp. She let him strip away the last of her clothes before he pressed himself between her legs. He nudged into her cleft, pushing further, harder, until he was fully inside her at last. He paused for a moment, his ragged breath the only sound. He drew back and sank into her again. She braced herself against his arms, as his hips began to thrust in earnest, gracelessly at first before finding a rhythm. 

He wanted to be slow, to be tender, but the heat that emanated from her, the way her body seemed to clutch at him, the velvet feel of her around him overwhelmed him and he felt himself coming undone, unravelling, until he was twitching and gasping for air.

After a moment, her hands slid down between their bodies and she gently pushed his hips away, off her. He collapsed next to her, unguarded and blissful. She forbade him to peek as she reached beside the bed and picked up his discarded shirt. She slipped it on over her head as she climbed out of bed. He disobeyed and watched her as she walked to the kitchen.

Even by the dying embers of the fire he could see it: a dark stain between her pale thighs. He looked down. There was a wet smear on the bed, sticky under his fingers. He went cold.

_Blood_ , he realized. In the kitchen, the water pump creaked and gurgled and she squealed as she told him the water was so cold.

He felt sick—not at the sight of the blood but knowing _he_ did that. Details began to cruelly filter through his consciousness: how she stiffened as he entered her, how her fingernails dug into his skin, how her jaw clenched tight although she didn’t make a sound. She scampered back into the bed with him, shivering from the cold. She nestled against his chest for warmth, letting her bare legs tangle with his.

“I… I’m sorry,” he said at last. “I didn’t realize…”

“It’s okay.” Her breath tickled the little tuft of hair on his chest. “It didn’t hurt _too_ much,” she said.

He listened to her breathing and the faint contented noises she made as she fell asleep. He held her close and stroked her dark hair, silenced by a lump in his throat. As he started to drift off, a curious sense of peace settled onto him. 

He realized she’d be there when he woke tomorrow morning… and every morning from now on, for the rest of his life. He would have all the time in the world to make it up to her.

#

In his dreams of Jocelyn now, there is no blood, no apologies, and like all dreams, he only realizes later the details were wrong. The cabin is smaller, the bed is bigger, he’s a grown man while she’s still sixteen. He can never quite make out her face but he knows, always knows that it’s her, and he can almost still smell the powder on her skin when he wakes. He dreams about her under him, next to him, astride him. Last night, he woke face down in his pillow, his hips rutting into the mattress.

_Ridiculous_ , he thinks. _Should just get this over with._

He sighs and pushes his pajama pants down near his knees and his swollen cock springs free. He wraps a hand around the shaft and begins stroking quickly, furiously. It doesn’t take long before he can feel the heat pooling in his belly, the constricting feeling as he teeters closer to orgasm. He stares at the ceiling and tries to focus on the brute mechanics, the sensation, restraining his thoughts from picturing Jocelyn or anyone else. But when he gets so close, he lets his eyes close for just for a moment.

_Pale blonde hair splayed out over a pillow—_

His eyes snap open before he can picture more but it’s too late, he’s already seen it. He whimpers and his free hand twists in the bedsheets as come spatters against his rigid stomach.

He lies on the bed, not moving, not thinking. His eyelids grow heavier. He peels off his damp undershirt and uses it to mop away the unsightly mess he’s made and tosses the shirt in a corner. His legs wobble with exhaustion as he hitches his pants back up. Then he rolls onto his side and falls into a black, dreamless sleep.

#

The sin of last night weighs heavily on him and he’s disappointed when he kneels in the confessional and his confessor turns out to be Father Lawrence. Among the priests, he’s notorious for letting everyone off with the same punishment: ten Hail Marys, an Our Father, and a Glory Be. Today is no different and Leonard takes it upon himself to triple the penance Lawrence gives.

After confessing, Leonard kneels in the center aisle of the empty church, denying himself the cushioned kneelers in the pews. He grinds the rosary beads between thumb and index finger as he prays. When he stands at last, his joints crack ominously, his entire body aching.

He hurries back to the rectory where it’s his month for KP duty. In the kitchen, Brother Felix has started without him, standing at the counter with a tidy pile of potato peelings in front of him. Leonard apologizes, rolls up his sleeves and gets to work.

“Thought you weren’t going to make it,” Felix says, handing him a paring knife. “Where you been?”

“Penance took longer than I expected,” he says.

“How much penance did you get?” Felix pares away an entire potato in one long, curling strip, a skill Leonard envies.

“Well, it was Lawrence, so, you know, the usual amount.”

Brother Felix stops peeling. He takes on the soft Irish lilt of Father Lawrence. “‘Oh, a murderer, eh? Well, that’s _very_ serious, son, _very_ serious. Your penance? Ten Hail Marys, an Our Father, and _two_ Glory Bes.’” Leonard just shakes his head.

“Hey now, pay attention there, boy.” Felix points to Leonard’s hands with the tip of his knife. “So, why d’you look so beat?”

“I… haven’t been sleeping well.” Leonard pauses, then realizes that Felix is waiting to hear more. “I keep having the strangest dreams, about the sweetheart I had when I was sixteen.” He ignores Felix’s raised eyebrow. “Although I suppose, technically, she was my wife.”

“I think I need to sit down for this,” Felix says, as he pulls a chair up to the counter. “Leonard McCoy, teenage Casanova, is that it?”

Leonard snorts. “Yeah, something like that. We ran off together. Got married. First thing the next morning, her folks was almost beating down the door looking for her. I thought her daddy was going to beat the tar out of me right there, before I could even get my pants on, but they just hustled her out to the car and drove off. I never saw her again.”

“What, not ever?” Felix’s hands are motionless in his lap, clutching a half-peeled potato.

He shakes his head. “Her family got a judge to annul the whole thing and they shipped her off to relatives up north somewhere. I wrote to her, though. Every day for a while, but she never wrote back. Eventually, I just gave up.”

Felix _tsks_ through his teeth. “Well, one thing’s for sure,” he says. “I bet that potato you’re butchering wishes you’d stayed married to that girl.”

He takes the potato and the knife from Leonard’s hands and shoos him away like a stray mutt. “Go on, boy, get outta here,” he says. “Lord have mercy, you’re more trouble than you’re worth.” Leonard smiles and leaves the kitchen to set the long dining room table for lunch.

#

For days, Leonard’s felt something tickling at the back of his mind, something he meant to do, but he can’t put his finger on it. He chalks it up to a week of bad sleep and tries to ignore it. After lunch, he heads down to the Church of Notre Dame to hear confessions. It’s hot already despite it being early June and the confessional is so stifling, he almost nods off. He considers taking a page from Father Lawrence’s book, doling out the same penance again and again, but he can’t bring himself to do it. He hears each sinner out thoughtfully and tries to offer them guidance as well as absolution.

When the appointed confession hours are nearly over, he walks to the doors of the church to pull them closed. He stands in the doorway and closes his eyes a moment, grateful for the cool breeze on his face. When he opens his eyes, he sees Carol hurrying up to the door. Her blonde hair stirs in the breeze and he flinches, ashamed. 

“Am I too late?” she asks as she reaches him.

He looks around to make sure that no one else is heading their way. He shakes his head. “Come on in,” he says. She pulls a gauzy scarf from her purse and uses it to cover her hair before entering.

“Shall we?” he says, indicating the open confessional booth.

Her eyes grow round. “Oh… no,” she says. “I just… I came here to apologize.”

“For what?” He slides into a pew while she perches at its edge, her arms tight by her sides. She stares towards the altar. He does the same, hoping this offers her enough privacy to say what’s on her mind.

“I think I made an ass of myself—” Her hand flies to her mouth and he stifles a laugh. “I mean, I think I made a _spectacle_ of myself the last time I saw you. I came to apologize, if I made you… uncomfortable, or, or anything.” 

He’d tried not to think of that moment, how good it felt to grip her waist, and the look she gave him when she fled. He hated himself for what he’d done. He was an oaf, he told himself, an idiot. He’d ruined everything between them, destroyed whatever small friendship they might have had. He watches her lay her hands flat on her lap, as though she is forcing herself to keep them still. He wants to take her hand and press it between his own. _It was me,_ he thinks. _I was the one who acted like an ass._

“You have absolutely nothing to apologize for,” he says. Her shoulders ease and she sighs quietly, with relief. He shakes his head.

“Well,” she says, straightening up. "Good." She straightens the hem of her dress over her knees. "My, um, my sightseeing offer still stands, if you ever want to take me up on it."

_Friday_ , he thinks _. That's what it was_.

“Oh no, I forgot," he says. “I’m sorry, it just completely slipped my mind. I haven't…” _Been sleeping well lately_ , he almost says.

“No, it’s perfectly understandable,” she says. “It wasn’t as if we’d made specific plans to meet or anything. Of course, now I’ve built it up so much you’ll probably be disappointed once we finally get there.”

“I guess we’ll find out for ourselves, won’t we?” he says.

She smiles at him. “I’m a little busy with the last of my coursework and then graduation, but after that…” She shrugs. “I’m here all summer.” 

She picks up her purse. “I should go,” she says. 

He has so many things he’d like to ask her: is she excited about graduating, has she decided to stay in the city or not. But he just nods and walks her to the door.

#

That night, there’s a soft tap at his bedroom door. When he opens it, Felix presents him with a mug of hot milk with brandy.

“Strictly medicinal,” Felix says, with a wink.

When he finishes, Leonard puts the empty cup on his desk and gets into bed pleasantly drowsy. He lets himself remember Jocelyn again. 

_She must be married now_ , he thinks. _Married again, that is. Maybe with kids of her own now, even._

He falls asleep wondering if she even remembers him, but his dreams of her do not return.


	13. Jim

By the time he gets out of bed, the apartment already reeks of bleach and disinfectant. On his way to the kitchen, he passes the open door to the bathroom. Carol is on her knees, scrubbing behind the toilet. He pauses.

_No one is ever going to see that_ , he wants to say. He wants to ask her if she genuinely thinks her parents will love her any less if everything is not spotless but he just continues on to the kitchen.

He pours himself the last of the coffee, then stands at the counter, flipping through the newspaper. When he turns to the international news, he studies an editorial about whether de Gaulle’s return to power might restore peace to Algeria. He files every detail away, ready to call upon them later when Carol’s father, Admiral Alexander Marcus, invariably corners him and puts him on the spot. _So, tell me, Jim… what do you think about this business in Algeria?_

The first time it had happened, Jim was charmed by the old man. They’d bonded over the fact they had both been Navy men, compared notes on the places they’d both been. When the Admiral moved on to asking Jim’s opinion on events, Jim felt he was being challenged, tested to see whether he was worthy of marrying the man’s beautiful daughter. Every time, Jim felt himself stepping up to bat, swinging at a ball he couldn’t see and just hoping for the best. But now, two years on, he wonders what the old man’s getting at, if he’s waiting for Jim to strike out so that he can finally say, _I knew it, I knew you were never good enough for my daughter_.

He watches from the doorway while Carol makes the bed and snaps the sheets taut.

“How long have you been up?” he asks.

She shrugs. “I don’t know, a couple hours,” she says. “What time is it now?” She picks up the little alarm clock by her bedside and muttering _shit_.

She brushes past Jim and shuts herself in the bathroom. “We’re supposed to meet them at one o’clock, at their hotel,” she says from behind the closed door.

“It’s only half past nine,” he says, but the shower is already on.

#

They arrive at the hotel fifteen minutes early to find Carol’s parents already waiting in the lobby. Jim hangs back while Carol stiffly embraces each of them. Jim gets away with merely shaking hands with them. Carol’s mother, Claudette, takes Jim’s arm as they walk to the theater behind Carol and her father. Claudette looks like Carol, Jim thinks, but something like a picture unfocused: the angular lines of her face softer and none of the keenness behind the eyes. When Jim asks her if she had a pleasant journey, she seems almost surprised to see him there.

Jim checks off each scene of the Wednesday matinee in the _Playbill_ as it ends, counting down to the moment the play ends. Something about the dark theater and the droning voices makes him as fidgety as a little kid. If he were sitting next to Carol, she’d be hissing at him to be patient, keep still, but Claudette does not. But he audibly groans when the cast takes a third curtain call and Claudette catches him, covering her mouth to smile.

At dinner, Jim slides into the round booth next to his wife. He puts the entire table’s distance between him and his father-in-law, hoping this is the tactical advantage he needs. Carol and her mother begin to debate the merits of the play, whether Helen Hayes is better in films or on stage. Admiral Marcus begins to say _So, Jim, tell me…_ but Jim leaps into the women’s conversation.

“I’m sorry, Carol, but I think your mother is right,” he says. Carol looks at him, her eyebrows drawn together with irritation. He smiles at her and flicks his eyes towards the Admiral.

_Come on,_ he thinks. _Help me out._ Carol doesn’t seem to pick up on his cue but thankfully changes the subject. She asks her mother how things are at home with her sister. A quiet falls across the table and Carol’s parents exchange a look which Jim can’t interpret.

“Florence and Arthur are separated,” Claudette says quietly. “I’m sure it’s only temporary and they’ll make up in due time.”

The Admiral scoffs. “I still think she could do better,” he says.

“Alexander, please,” Claudette says, under her breath.

Carol looks from one parent to the other. “What happened?” she asks. “They seemed… happy.”

Claudette leans closer to Carol, as though someone at the adjacent table might hear.

“Florence believes he’s been… inappropriate with the children’s nanny,” she says quietly. “I told her she should have hired someone older. You know how he can be.”

Jim watches Carol’s jaw tense and flex, her eyes cold. The admiral sneers and mutters something Jim doesn’t catch over the din of the restaurant. They sit in silence for a moment until a waiter brings a tray of dishes. Jim asks for another cocktail, off his father-in-law’s hook for the night.

When Jim and Carol take the subway home, her face is gray with fatigue. It makes him wonder whether she will grow to look more like her mother as she ages.

“What was the story with your sister?” he asks.

She makes a displeased noise. “Who cares?” she says. “They bloody well deserve each other.” His eyebrows raise but she puts her head on his shoulder and shuts her eyes. 

#

He has carefully arranged to be as busy as possible. They’re not _my_ parents, he tells her, and she just looks at him in that pitying way he can’t stand.

His own mother was dead. The last time he saw her was when he and Carol were married. His mother and Frank stayed only as long as they were expected to before driving back home to Kansas. Frank looked Carol up and down like a butcher appraising a pig and slapped Jim on the back.

_Nice work, son_ , he said and it was all Jim could do not to punch Frank in the mouth. His mother said little. She’d seemingly shrunk in size in the few years since he’d seen her last. She wept through the entire wedding, but whether or not they were tears of joy, he couldn’t have guessed.

Seven months later, he got a telegram from a distant cousin:  MOTHER AND FRANK PASSED AWAY LAST SUNDAY. CAR ACCIDENT. BURIED WEDNESDAY. CONDOLENCES ON YOUR LOSS. LETTER TO FOLLOW.

_I’ll never have to deal with Frank ever again_ was all he could think.

Carol kissed his cheeks and forehead, asked him again and again if he was okay, if there was anything she could do, but he just shook his head. He felt untethered, like he could drift away from the ground without warning. He went through days on end in a slight haze, still able to focus on work and classes, but when he was alone, the detached, floating sense returned. One night, as he lay awake in bed, Carol curled up against his back. She clutched him tight while he absently patted her arm.

_She told me to take care of you, Jim,_ she said. _She said I was your family now and that I needed to take care of you._ He felt himself crashing back to Earth and he hid his face from his wife and wept.

Now, he’s supposed to make nice with Carol’s parents for the next week. He tells Carol he has last-minute work on a paper he’d like to publish but in truth, he plans to enjoy a few last days of freedom before he heads off to a job every day like any other working stiff. He’d gotten a job at the State Department, just some low-level policy work, but he knows he can work his way up quickly. His first real job—no more screwing around, time to straighten up and fly right. Like it or not.

Carol is out the door early the next day, taking her parents to some museum or other. He tells her to have fun but her smile is grim. He takes his time before getting dressed, leafing through the paper in his pajamas. He’s not sure what he’s going to do. The Yankees are out of town; otherwise, he’d slip up to the Bronx and catch a midday game. Not much going on in any of the jazz clubs on a Thursday afternoon. He could go down to Times Square and just… see where the day takes him. He shakes off this idea before it has a chance to take hold.

On his way to the subway, he passes their church. Its doors are flung open in the heat and he finds himself drawn inside. It wasn’t what he’d planned to do but he’s got the entire day ahead of him. No reason he can’t stop for a moment. The church nave is cool and still, despite the rising heat outside. He sits in a pew and after a moment, his mind quiets. He thinks of Brother Christopher, wondering what he might tell him about this church, perhaps point out some details of a Biblical story represented in the stained glass windows.

“Jim?” Father McCoy asks. “Am I interrupting?”

“No, not at all.” Jim slides further into the pew to give the priest room. “I guess I was off somewhere else for a moment.”

Father McCoy nods. “What brings you here today?”

“Nothing, really,” Jim says. “I was on my way downtown but I saw the doors were open and I just wandered in.” He leans closer. “Between you and me, Carol’s parents are in town and, well, I guess I’m playing hooky.”

The priest laughs quietly. “Lucky for you, I’m pretty good at keeping secrets,” he says.

“Carol tells me she’s taking you on a tour of the city,” Jim says.

“Oh… yes, I suppose so.” The priest fidgets. “Just St. Patrick’s Cathedral, really. I mentioned I hadn’t seen it yet and she offered to go with me.”

“That’s great.” Jim smiles. “Thank you, Father. It means a lot to me to see you take an interest in Carol.”

“I… I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Well, she converted for me before we were married,” Jim says. “And, I feel like it never really _took_ , you know? She went through all the motions and we come to church every week but sometimes… I’m still not sure she really believes any of it.”

Father McCoy’s expression softens. “And you think I could change her mind?”

“Maybe?” Jim shrugs. “When I was a kid, I went to a Catholic school even though I wasn’t Catholic, and one of the brothers sort of took me under his wing. Took me to church with him, explained things to me. I thought I could do that for her but maybe it takes a professional.”

Jim grins but Father McCoy’s face is sober, thoughtful. “I’ll do my best,” he says.

“I know you will.” He claps the priest on the shoulder. “Time I was on my way, though.” They slide out of the pew. He shakes the priest’s hand and heads back out into the summer heat, whistling tunelessly as he heads for the downtown train.

#

When he returns that night, he thinks Carol must still be out. The lights are off, the apartment quiet. As he approaches the bedroom, he sees her: asleep in nothing but a white slip, her skin almost ghostly in the dark. He brushes his knuckles along her thigh.

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty,” he says quietly. He kisses her knee and the back of her hand. When she begins to stir, he moves on to kissing her neck and collarbone. “Are you awake yet?” he asks.

“What time is it?” she says.

“About seven,” he says. He pulls the strap of her slip off her shoulder. “Why, you got a date?”

She bats his hands away and rubs her face gracelessly. “I can’t believe I fell asleep for so long. Wait, did you just get home?” she asks.

“Yeah, the revisions took longer than expected,” he says. “And the subways were running slow.” _Well, the last part is true_ , he thinks. In truth, the afternoon showing of _Vertigo_ was longer than he expected.

“Oh, Jim,” she says, sitting up, “I nearly forgot. You’re not going out tomorrow night, are you?”

His stomach drops. “Well, I was planning on it. Friday night and all…” he says.

“I know, it’s just… well, I got you something. Sort of a graduation gift,” she says.

“Carol—”

“No, I know,” she says, raising her hand in protest. “And I didn’t spend anything on it. It’s a surprise, though, and it’s after the commencement Saturday. So, my parents want to take us out Friday night to celebrate instead...”

_But it was going to be my last_ , he thinks. _My last Friday night._

“Yeah, okay,” he says.

“Oh, good!” she says. “Oh, Jim, I hope you’re going to like it.”

_Maybe this is for the best_ , he decides.

He just nods and goes to the kitchen for a beer.

#

“Come on, Jim, smile,” Carol says through gritted teeth.

“I am,” he hisses. All he wants is to get this stupid cap and gown off. It’s bad enough he has to wear it all day tomorrow but playing dress-up for Carol’s parents is ridiculous. He feels like a goddamned clown in this getup.

The Admiral peers down into the camera viewfinder and Claudette discreetly dabs at her eyes for at least the third time that night. Jim wishes she would either get it over with and cry or not, without all this fuss. He wonders if his own mother would have wept to see him like this. He never gave her the opportunity when he graduated high school; he took off as soon as he heard he’d passed all his classes. He didn’t even go home, just packed a bag and hitched his way to the Navy recruiting depot at Great Lakes.

Jim had, of course, said goodbye to Brother Christopher. The night before he left, they sat in his office together and he handed Jim a tumbler with barely a finger of scotch in it. After they raised their glasses to each other, Jim knocked the drink back in one swallow. It burned going down and left him sputtering. Brother Christopher laughed and pounded Jim on the back.

“Be careful, son,” he said. Jim could still feel the weight of the man’s hand on his shoulder.

“I will,” Jim said.

They kept in touch sporadically for a while but Jim was never really any good at writing letters. Every few months, he was packing up and shipping out to somewhere new, and at some point along the way, he misplaced Brother Christopher’s return address, and that was that.

Carol was his family now—although he sometimes wishes she hadn’t come with family of her own.

“Are we _done_ yet?” Carol asks her parents testily. “I’m _starving_.” Jim tries not to smirk.

“Yes, we’re done,” the admiral says, packing his camera away.

#

At dinner, Jim drinks a little too much, trying not to think about where else he would be on a Friday night, who he might have seen, what he might have done. The admiral corners him into a conversation about Indochina and Jim barely bluffs his way through. On the way home that night, he asks Carol, “Why does your father do that, anyway?”

“Do what?” she says.

“You know, grill me about current events like that.”

“He does?” she asks, lifting her head from his shoulder. “I honestly never noticed.” He shrugs and leans his head back against the subway window.

When they get home, Carol tuts at him when he pours himself another drink.

“You’ll have an awful headache,” she warns. “And it’s going to be a very long day tomorrow.”

She sits with him for a bit but goes to bed without him. He stays up, drinking in front of the television, through Jack Paar and until the station signs off for the night. He staggers into bed still dressed and feels like he closes his eyes for only a moment before Carol trails her fingers through his hair.


	14. Carol

When she woke, she found Jim sprawled across his side of the bed, still dressed, and she knew he hadn’t listened to her. 

“Come on,” she said, “wake up, Sunny Jim. Graduation today.”

She tried to wake him as gently as she could, hoping he wouldn’t be hung over—or worse, still drunk. She handed him a Bromo-Seltzer as soon as he seemed awake enough to hold a glass, then cooked breakfast, hoping coffee and fried eggs would set him right.

_Today of all days,_ she thought, scraping the eggs from the pan. 

Now there’s a warning rumble of thunder in the distance but the commencement speaker is droning on and Jim is pretending not to nod off behind his sunglasses. Carol’s hands are tightly folded in her lap, her knuckles white. _What was this point_ , she thinks, _of all my hard work?_

She’s been thinking _and_ _now what?_ for days, off and on, in moments of quiet. _So, now what, what now?_ Jim had a job waiting for him but what was she going to do? Decamp for the suburbs like Janice and Jo? Or begin an endless trial to prove she’s as worthy as anyone else? She looks all around her until she sees one gradation cap with long, mousy hair spilling out from under it, the spotty-faced girl from her class. 

_What about you?_ she thinks. _What_ _are you going to do?_

No matter what, she still expected this day to be extraordinary, a moving finale to years of work. She wonders if maybe this would be like getting married, where the feeling of anything having changed took months to seep in. Or maybe Jim was right and this whole graduation ceremony is a waste of time.

#

After the speakers are finished and caps are thrown into the air, Carol and Jim make their way to the steps of the library to meet her parents. They take yet another round of photos and Carol doesn’t even bother to tell Jim to smile more.

“Are we ready to go?” says Jim.

“No, uh, not yet at least,” she says, watching the crowd.

“What’s the holdup?”

“Just… patience, please,” she says. “And take your sunglasses off for a minute. Trust me, okay?”

She checks her watch, watches people pass in knots for three and four, and then she sees him. A middle-aged man alone, sandy hair graying at the temples, walking towards them.

“Jim,” she says, grabbing his arm. In her excitement, she forgets this was to be a surprise. She points to the man coming closer. “Jim… is that him?”

He looks from the man to her and back again. She needs to nudge Jim to get him moving and he walks forward like someone in a dream. At the bottom of the stairs, he and the other man stand and look at each other for a moment before embracing.

“Is that his childhood priest you told us about?” Carol’s mother asks. “The one from the school?”

“Yes, but he’s not a priest, he’s a brother. It’s different,” Carol says, “And anyway, apparently he’s not even that anymore.”

Her mother’s mouth purses. Carol can tell she wants to ask more but instead she watches Jim. He’s looking at his shoes and shaking his head. The man’s hand is resting on Jim’s shoulder. They turn and head up the steps towards Carol and her parents.

“I’d like to introduce you to my wife’s parents,” Jim says. “Admiral and Mrs. Marcus, this is, er, Christopher Fitzgerald. Sorry, it’s going to take me a minute to get used to calling you just Christopher.”

After Christopher shakes hands with her parents, Jim stands next to Carol, slipping an arm around her waist.

“And this is my wife, Carol,” he says. “Although I’m guessing you two are already acquainted.”

“It’s so nice to finally meet you,” Carol says.

“Jim,” Christopher says, “It took this young woman a lot of letters and phone calls to track me down. I hope it was all worth it.”

“I’ll leave you two to get reacquainted with each other,” she says.“I’ll see you at home later?”

Jim takes her aside. “I don’t… I don’t know how you managed this,” he says. “But thank you.”

“It was the least I could do,” she says. “Now come on and give me your cap and gown so I can take them home.”

#

Carol doesn’t understand why her father is allowed the privilege of a before-dinner nap while she is not, yet she sits in the hotel lounge with her mother, listlessly stirring a cocktail with a straw.

“So,” her mother begins and Carol is already cringing. “What did Jim get you?”

“We decided not to buy each other graduation gifts.”

“Oh… well, dear,” she says and pats her daughter’s hand. “I’m sure he’ll change his mind and get you something nice. I mean, after you tracked down that priest for him after all…”

“He’s not a priest, he’s…” Carol forces herself to smile. “Never mind.” 

“Talking of which, your father and I would like to buy you both something. He wanted to surprise you with a car but I thought that seemed like a terrible nuisance when you can just take a taxi instead.”

“No, we don’t… we don’t want a car, Mother, really.”

“Well, something else then,” she says. “A vacation, perhaps. Something you can do together.”

_Jim would hate that,_ she thinks. Any time her family’s money comes up, he rolls his eyes and mutters _must be nice_ under his breath. 

“How is Florence holding up?” Carol asks.

Her mother’s eyes dart left and right before she speaks. “You know Florence,” she says. “Always such a good girl, keeps her chin up. I don’t think the children even know about it. They think Arthur is away on business. Don’t slouch, darling.”

Carol ignores her mother’s advice, stabbing at the ice in her drink with her straw. “So he’s just… off on his own then? Wreaking havoc?”

Her mother’s fine hands flutter, as though she is dissipating the idea like cigarette smoke. “Well, you know Arthur…” she says.

Carol snorts quietly and picks up her drink.

“Oh, darling,” her mother says. “You can’t _still_ be upset about all that, can you? It was ages ago.”

Carol sets her cocktail glass down with more force than she intended. “I was sixteen,” she says.

In an instant, her mother latches onto Carol’s wrist, nails digging into the flesh, eyes glittering. “Carol Fortescue Marcus,” she says in a low voice, “You will not make a spectacle of yourself.”

Carol pulls her wrist back and rubs it. “Of course not,” she says, watching her mother’s face soften again. “What would you like to talk about instead?”

#

When she gets home, Carol strips down and fills the bathtub with the hottest water her taps can produce.

_This day_ , she thinks, settling into the scalding water. _This wretched, awful day_. Everything about it could go to hell. Jim and his hangover. The meaningless graduation. Her friends, her supposed friends, couldn’t even be bothered to come today. And then her mother trying to tell her she shouldn’t still be upset about Arthur.

She picks up a brush and scrubs her skin until it smarts. _Arthur_. Arthur and his charming smile. Arthur and his aristocratic hands. Arthur whom she loved so much. 

When Florence and Arthur announced their engagement. Carol knew little about her sister’s fiancé, other than that he was twenty-five years old and from what her mother deemed _a respectable family, mostly._ Almost as soon as the news arrived, the household seemed to turn itself over to wedding plans. Her father disappeared into his study while her mother and sister talked of nothing else, leaving Carol out. 

“I understand you have a keen interest in the stars,” Arthur said to Carol during lunch one Sunday. “Perhaps you could show me later, once it’s dark?” He turned in his seat and gave his full attention to her, his eyes searching her face. For a moment, she could hear her own pulse rushing in her ears. 

“I… yes, of course, that would be nice,” she managed to say. He smiled and turned back to the others’ conversation at the table.

As Arthur became a regular fixture of Saturday outings and Sunday luncheons, he spent some time alone with Carol nearly every week, unless it was raining. Even the cold wouldn’t keep them indoors. She would take her telescope from the garden shed and set it up for him, often before he even arrived. The first time they were alone, he told her how clever she was, and each time after, he flattered her more: she was smart, she was fascinating, she was lovely.One night, they sat on the bench at far end of the garden. When she pointed out the constellation Cygnus, he slid closer, to see where she was pointing. He let his hand fall upon her thigh, not moving, simply resting upon her leg. She thought— _knew_ —she should move away but the heat of his touch seemed to immobilize her. She hoped he would take his hand away on his own, and also hoped he would never stop. 

The next time they met, he sat next to her on the bench, tipped her chin up and kissed her. 

“I’m mad for you, Carol,” he whispered. “But you mustn’t tell _anyone_.”

She nodded and wrapped her arms around his neck. The telescope stood nearby, untouched.

Months passed, the wedding drew nearer, and Carol began to almost pity her sister. Florence was just an inconvenient arrangement—it was her, Carol, he truly loved. At dinner, he’d sit next to her and put his hand on her thigh, just as he had before. She began sneaking out of the house after dark to meet him on the bench where no one could see. When she asked him when he would break the news to Florence, he murmured _soon, soon, I promise_ as he slid his hand under her skirt. Afterwards, she crept back into her bedroom and stayed awake for hours with her entire body pulsing, thrilled by all the ways he’d touched her and a little frightened by how much she’d wanted it.

Two days before Florence and Arthur were to be married, Carol went to meet him and found only a note: _I can’t break my engagement, forgive me._

Carol had to tell someone, someone who would help, who would understand. Not her father. He would be furious with Arthur, and it wasn’t his fault—it was Florence’s, for trapping him this way. Instead, she collapsed onto her mother’s bed, tears streaming down her face, and told her everything. _He just can’t marry Florence,_ _he’s been with me, Mummy, just a few nights ago,_ she sobbed. Her mother’s eyes closed and when they opened again, they were lit with fury. For a moment, Carol felt flooded with relief. Surely her mother would call everything off.

“You _will not_ ruin Florence’s wedding; do I make myself clear?” her mother hissed. “I have done too much for this to fall apart now. You will _never_ speak of this again, not to me, not to anyone.”

Carol shrank away and ran to her bedroom. She wept through the entire wedding the next day, as aunts and cousins clucked with sympathy over her. _What a loving sister_ , they said, _to be so heartbroken at Florence leaving her_.

After the newlyweds went away on their honeymoon, Carol felt her need for Arthur souring, turning into anger. Everything reminded her of him and she knew the only way to live was to get away, away from him, away from all of England if she had to. Columbia was the first to accept her application and she left for America within the month.

Now, her anger bleeds out into the cooling bath water. Far below the window, she hears a clatter of garbage cans and the distant sounds of cars speeding past. She looks around at the tiny, dingy bathroom and realizes just how far away she is now, from her mother, from Arthur, from who she used to be. She runs through a list like a row of check boxes _. Living in New York. Married. Completed degree._

_So, now what?_

She dries off and goes to bed without waiting for Jim to get home.

#

“I can’t believe after all this time Brother Christopher lives in Queens,” Jim says, setting the newspaper down. He takes Carol’s hand. “And thank you, again, for tracking him down.”

She gives his hand a squeeze before she withdraws. “Did you find out why he left?” she asks.

“He’s married,” Jim says. He throws his hands up in disbelief. “He went home when his mother died and ran into some old sweetheart and that was it. Left Kansas, got married, and now he lives with her and her kids out in Sunnyside.” He stares into space then shakes his head.

“Why is that so hard for you to believe?” she asks.

“I don’t know. I guess I just always assumed he was, you know…” He makes a see-saw motion with his hand. “I mean, back in school, I knew plenty of the brothers and priests were that way.”

She laughs. “You don’t believe they were called by God to a higher purpose?”

“Maybe some of them,” he says. “The uglier ones.”

She shakes her head. “You think Father Leonard is… you know?”

He shoves most of a slice of toast in his mouth and shrugs. He thinks it over as he chews. “Well,” he says at last, “he’s not ugly.” 

_No, he is not_ , she thinks.

“How was the rest of the day with your parents?” he asks, brushing crumbs from his fingers onto the plate.

She shrugs. “The usual. Twenty questions. When are we going to buy a real house. When are we starting a family.”

He nods and snaps open the newspaper again. “So, what did you tell them?”

“The usual,” she says. “‘I don’t know, when we’re ready.’”

From behind the paper, he _hmms_ and she isn’t even sure he’s listening. “I’m going to get dressed,” he says. “Did you remember to buy more soap?”

She nods. “Under the sink,” she says.

After the bathroom door closes and the shower begins to run, she exhales, unaware she had been holding her breath.


	15. Leonard

He had been staring at the same ledger for ages, until all its numbers blurred together. He couldn’t keep from thinking of how Jim Kirk had thanked him for taking an interest in his wife, and had all but asked him to help bring her closer to their faith. No one’s ever asked him that before. He isn’t entirely sure what he’s supposed to do. 

“Hey!” Brother Felix stands in the doorway and snaps his fingers. “I’ve been calling you for ages now. You told me to let you know when the tea was done.”

Leonard rubs his hands over his face. “Sorry, Felix,” he says. “It’s just so hot today. I’ll be right there.”

In the kitchen, Felix sits at the table with a sweating pitcher of sweet iced tea and a box from the bakery in front of him. When Leonard arrives, he pours him a tall glass and watches him down half of it.

“Well?” he asks, still holding the pitcher.

“Could use a little mint but otherwise good,” Leonard says.

Felix sets the pitcher down with a thump and points at Leonard. “Heathen. That’s what you are,” he says.

“Well, maybe I’m just remembering my grandmother’s recipe with more fondness than it deserves,” Leonard says. “But you’ve done a fine job, just the same.”

Felix says nothing but looks satisfied with himself. As he squares his shoulders and sits down, he reminds Leonard of a glossy bird, smoothing its ruffled plumage.

“So, you were just off woolgathering while I was down here calling you?” Felix asks.

“I suppose so, yes.” He stirs the syrupy tea with a long spoon. “I was thinking about… snow.”

Felix snorts quietly. “I can’t say I blame you on a day like this.”

“Had you seen snow before you came here?” Leonard asks.

He thinks about it for a moment. “Once. When I was a kid, out in the Blue Ridge Mountains. We went camping overnight and when we woke up it had snowed. Nothing like the snow here, though. Why?”

Leonard shrugs. “I had never seen snow before I came here. Then one day, it started snowing and I… I got so excited, I took my catechism class outside to play in it.”

Felix slaps the table. “I didn’t know that was you. You know all those children asked to be let out every time it snowed that winter. You’re a bad influence, you are.”

“Well, I’m paying for it now, aren’t I? Slaving over columns of figures every day.”

“You’re too honest, is what your problem is,” Felix says. “Everyone else knows: you slip in a few arithmetic errors in there, forget to carry the one… next thing you know, you’re off bookkeeping duties for good.”

“What can I say? I guess it’s just the way my mama raised me,” Leonard says. “So, you gonna pass me those cookies or what?”

#

He comes perilously close to nodding off in the airless confessional booth, despite the uncomfortable bench. He shifts his weight, trying to stretch his legs as best he can as he waits for another parishioner. Summers are always the slow season for confessional hours; no one thinks much about damnation and sin on a warm June day.

His mind drifts back again to Jim Kirk. _How am I supposed to reach her?_ he thinks. He picks up a well-worn Bible and ruffles the pages with his thumb. He closes his eyes and flips the book open at random, letting his finger fall on a verse. When he opens his eyes again, he looks down to find the book open to the middle of the _Song of Songs_ : _A garden inclosed is my sister, my spouse; a spring shut up, a fountain sealed._

He snaps the Bible shut and lets his head loll back against the wall. He could loan her his copy of Thomas Merton’s _The Seven Storey Mountain_ , he thinks, but it’s grubby and dog-eared and scribbled in from a decade of study. Maybe he could find her a copy of her own. Maybe they could sit together to read it, shoulder to shoulder, their heads leaning in close. He could tell her how the book changed his life, how it opened his eyes, and gave him purpose and direction when he was a broken-hearted kid of 17.

He would tell her about the time he heard there was a bishop from the New York diocese visiting the seminary campus, how he practically begged the man to let him move to the city, to finally follow in Merton’s exact footsteps. And when he got the letter telling him there was a place for him if he still wanted it, he packed up immediately and took the first train. Only after he settled into his train berth did he realize he was still clutching the letter in his hand. He imagines she’d laugh about that, that laugh of hers like the pealing of a bell.

_You came all that way just so you could sit in Merton’s church?_ she might ask him. He would nod and tell her how the journey felt to him like a pilgrimage. When he arrived in New York, he’d say, he couldn’t believe how bitterly cold it was. Maybe, in the hope of making her laugh again, he’d tell her about taking his students out into the snow. How furious the monsignor was with him and how he was sure he’d be sent packing.

He wonders if he could tell her how adrift he felt in those first couple of months in the city. He kept _The Seven Storey Mountain_ in the pocket of his new winter coat, the warmest one he could afford. He read the book from beginning to end, over and over again, everywhere he went, until it made him feel less alone.

_But you know me,_ she might say, just as she did sitting next to him on the fire escape. _You know me,_ she said, her hand alighting just over her heart.

He gets on his knees and tries to shake the memory of that night. He clamps each bead of the rosary hard, and soon, the litany of holy words blots out all other thoughts.

#

“Someone called for you while you were out,” Felix calls, as Leonard trudges up the stairs. “Some woman? Carolyn?”

“Carol?” he asks, without turning around.

“Maybe. There’s a note for you by the telephone.”

He nods and keeps walking upstairs. He props open the window in his tiny room. There’s scarcely a breeze, and he sticks his head out the window as far as he dares in the hope of finding one. He changes into a fresh shirt and drops the other down the laundry chute before he heads back down the stairs.

Next to the phone, he finds three scrawled notes, one of which is for him:

_Leonard_

_Carol Kirk, MO 3-1174_

_3:10 p.m._

He takes up the receiver, puts it down again, checks his watch. Just after five o’clock. Would they be sitting down to dinner? Would she be in the middle of cooking? He sits in the rickety little chair next to the phone, picks up the phone and dials.

After five or six rings, he’s about to hang up when someone finally picks up.

“Hello?” she says.

“Hello, Carol? It’s Father McCoy.”

“Oh! Hold on a just a minute, Father.” There’s a soft thunk of the handset being laid down and Leonard strains to hear what she might be doing.

“I’m so sorry to keep you waiting,” she says when she returns. “I just walked in the door and I needed to put the ice cream in the icebox. I thought I might run into you if I stopped by the church but I didn’t see you there.”

“Ah… no, I was there, actually,” he says. “But I was in the confessional; I wouldn’t have seen you.”

“Oh. I hadn’t thought of that.” She pauses. “Well, say, I was thinking, tomorrow is Friday and my schedule is clear, if you… still wanted to go to the cathedral?”

“Yes,” he says too quickly. “I mean… if you don’t mind, I’d still very much like to see it.”

“Oh, good,” she says. “Would ten o’clock tomorrow suit you?”

He looks down and realizes he is twisting the telephone cord around his finger. He shakes his hand free. “Uh, yes,” he says, “ten sounds fine.”

For a moment, they sit in silence. He can faintly hear her breathing. At last she says, “I’m sorry to rush off, but I really should really get dinner started.”

“No, of course, I understand.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow then,” she says. “Have a good night, Father.”

“You too. Goodbye.” He lays the phone back in its cradle. Felix stands in the doorway, drying his hands on a kitchen towel.

Leonard folds his arms. “Something I can do for you, Felix?” he asks.

Felix throws the towel onto his shoulder and walks back to the kitchen without a word. Leonard gets up and follows him. In the kitchen, Felix picks up a head of lettuce and tears it apart, tossing the pieces into a bowl.

“One of the parishioners offered to visit St. Patrick’s Cathedral with me,” Leonard says. “Remember that time I tried to go there and I got lost? And you had to come get me?” He grins, looking to get a reaction, but Felix just picks up the next head of lettuce and plucks away the limp outer leaves.

“And anyway,” he continues, “you’re the one who said I should get to know these people.”

Felix says nothing. He nudges past Leonard, turns the cold water on and rinses the lettuce under the tap.

“Boy, you’re a real peach,” Leonard mutters. He waits a moment—for a reply, a shrug, anything—before he turns and walks away.

#

Hours after dark, his bedroom is just as hot as midday. He could swear this city never cools off, not even at night.

He thinks about the sleeping porch in his grandparents’ house, the little screened-in room where he’d camp out during the hottest nights of the Georgia summers. He liked to push the bedstead right up to the screen and watch the yard.

Over breakfast the next morning, he would tell his grandparents everything he saw in the night: a pair of foxes scouting around the henhouse, a gopher stealing tomatoes straight off the vines. His grandmother threatened to keep him indoors if the sleeping porch was too much excitement, but his granddad would laugh and tell Leonard he was a better watchdog than the actual dogs.

He flips the pillow over but it’s no cooler. _Those dogs... what were their names?_ With every year that went by, he found it harder and harder to recall details of his grandparents: the sounds of their voices or the way their house smelled.

There’s a soft tap at his door. No one but Felix would come knocking at his hour.

“Thought you use this,” Felix says, holding up an old electric fan. “I spent three summers in this room before you came along, and I remember how hot it can get.” 

“Thanks.” Leonard takes it out of Felix’s hands. “Anything else on your mind?”

Felix frowns slightly and shakes his head. “Enjoy your day tomorrow, Walt,” he says. “And… be careful.”

Leonard nods, unsure how to respond. “Thanks,” he says. “For the fan.”

Felix disappears down the dark hallway. Leonard shakes his head and closes the door. He places the fan on the windowsill and switches it on. It rattles ominously and only barely stirs the air, but he leaves it on. He strips down to just his shorts and lies on top of the sheets. He tosses and turns for a bit, then switches on the small lamp next to his bed. He extracts _The Seven Storey Mountain_ from beneath a small stack of letters from his mother. A cheap paper napkin marks the place where had been reading last and he opens the book to that page. He finds a passage he’d underlined, where Merton addresses the Holy Virgin directly:

_I was not sure where I was going, and I could not see what I would do when I got to New York. But you saw further and clearer than I, and you opened the seas before my ship, whose track led me across the waters to a place I had never dreamed of, and which you were even then preparing to be my rescue and my shelter and my home._

He looks around at the small room, the stack of letters, the t-shirt hanging from the bedpost, the plain cross on the wall. In the distance, a police siren flares and ebbs away.

_Is this my shelter and my home, Lord?_ he wonders.

He closes the book and puts out the light before he can ask any more questions.

#

At twelve minutes to ten, he checks his watch and decides to wait, rather than ring the doorbell too early. He glances through the window in the front door. A woman comes down the stairs; at first, he sees just her legs and the hem of a blue dress, but the instant he sees her hand on the rail, he knows it’s her.

“Have you been waiting long?” Carol asks as she steps out.

“Not at all,” he says. “I just got here.”

“It’s such a nice day, I thought I’d wait for you down here, but here you are,” she says. “Shall we?” 

They walk a few blocks to the IRT and make small talk about how nice it is that today doesn’t seem quite as hot as yesterday. In the subway car, the windows are open and the train clattering on the tracks makes it impossible to have a conversation without shouting. At 79th Street, she slides closer to him on the bench to make room for woman carrying a grocery bag on her other side. He pretends not to notice how the swell of her hip bumps against him with every jolt of the train.

Just before 50th Street, she touches his arm to get his attention. “We get off at the next stop,” she says over the din.

#

“It’s a few blocks from here,” she says when they reach the street. “Have you really never been to this part of town before?”

He shrugs. “Not that I recall,” he says, looking around. The street is busier than any he can remember seeing. Men in suits carrying newspapers and briefcases. Pairs of women with shopping bags. A couple wearing cameras around their necks stop short in the middle of the sidewalk. Carol _tsks_ under her breath.

“Tourists,” she mutters, as they walk around them.

They turn the corner and he points across the street. “Is that… Radio City Music Hall?” he asks. “It’s smaller than I imagined. And brighter.”

She laughs, and he rubs the back of his neck. “I guess I’m the tourist now,” he says.

“To be honest with you, I didn’t know what it was when I moved here,” she says. “Jim made such a big fuss about showing it to me and I didn’t want to hurt his feelings so I just nodded and tried to look impressed.”

She tries to peer into its front doors. “I’m still not really sure what it is,” she says quietly.

He cranes his neck to look at the neon sign. “I’ve never seen it in color before,” he says. “It’s, uh, a big movie theater, I think. When I was a kid, the newsreels would show movie stars arriving right here for movie premieres.”

He watches her look up. Her eyes travel down the length of the sign before meeting his. She looks away.

“I guess we’ll both be tourists today,” she says.

#

On the steps of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, people sit in clusters of twos and threes, reading maps, talking, smoking, or just resting their legs before charging off to the next sightseeing spot. _This is a house of God_ , he thinks, _not just some place for tourists to buy a cheap postcard to show everyone back home they’d been there._

He can feel himself starting to scowl as he opens the door for Carol. She pulls a scarf from her handbag and uses it to cover her hair. He’s still thinking about the sightseers outside as he looks up and sees the inside of the cathedral for the first time.

He stands still for a moment, struggling to take it all in. Creamy marble columns, each one bigger and taller than any tree, stretch up to the vaulted ceiling of dazzling white. The sun lights up the stained glass windows above an altar surrounded by gold. 

He blindly follows Carol into a pew, sinking into a seat without remembering to genuflect before he does. He knows he must look like a country rube right now, head tipping this way and that, trying to see everything at once. When he finally turns to look at her, her face is pinched with worry.

“Do you like it?” she says softly. 

She asks as if she had built it all for him with her own two hands, as if she would tear it to the ground if he were to answer no.

He nods. High above him, a host of saints turn their stained-glass eyes to the heavens. He cautiously lays his hand over hers.

“It’s amazing,” he says. 

After a moment, he slips out of the pew and she follows. 

“Would you… like to see my favorite part?” she whispers. 

“Yes,” he says. “Of course.”

She leads him up the nave and around the sanctuary to the Lady Chapel at the top of the cathedral, and it’s like a tiny church within the great building. This time he bows his head and crosses himself before sitting in one of the smaller pews there. The statue of the Virgin Mary is lit with a spotlight, luminous. He gets on his knees and bows his head.

_Thank you,_ he prays. 

He waits for something more but those are the only words that come.

Next to him, he can hear Carol sigh softly and he steals a glance at her. Her head is unbowed, her face in profile, looking up at the chapel around her. He wants to kiss her cheek, just once, tenderly, like a sister or a friend, and his sudden need frightens him.

“Shall we?” he asks, springing up from the pew.

“Of course,” she says. 

They start walking around the periphery of the cathedral, past the confessionals and the hundreds of candles burning before the statues of saints. They walk in silence at first, until Carol points out little things to him, injecting them into the conversation. They stop to look at the Pieta and she tells him it’s three times larger than Michelangelo's version. She mentions how church’s cornerstone was laid almost a hundred years ago, but it took twenty years to complete building. When they pass the entrance to the crypt under the altar, she tells him the Archbishops of New York are interred there, and he stops and shakes his head.

“How could you possibly know all this?” he asks. 

Without answering, she stops and opens her purse, then hands him a fraying book with a red cover. _New York City Guide: A Comprehensive Guide to the Five Boroughs of the Metropolis._

“I studied up this morning,” she says. “In case you had any questions.” He envisions her hunched over the breakfast table, brow furrowed in thought, idly stirring her coffee with one hand, the other holding this book open. In case he had any questions.

“You’ve been a perfect tour guide,” he says. He hands the book back and she tucks it away again. They walk a little further and he realizes they’ve completed two circuits around the church. 

“Are we… ready to leave?” he asks.

“I suppose so. I mean, if you are,” she says.

The doors to the cathedral lay open to the street. Beyond them, a statue of Atlas stands in the noon sun, the globe borne on his shoulders. Carol waits at the bottom of the steps. 

_Nothing left to do now but get on the train and head back_ , he thinks, and his pace slows.

When he reaches her, she says, “So…” and his heart sinks.

_I don’t want to go_ , he thinks _. I don’t want to go home yet_.

“I was thinking,” she continues, “I’ve been meaning to go to this bookstore that’s nearby. Would you… want to come with me? Or, if not, I understand, we can just walk over to the train if you’d rather—”

“No, not at all,” he says and immediately wishes he hadn’t sounded quite so eager. “That sounds great. Which way do we go from here?”

“It’s, uh, just this way.” she points across the wide, busy street. “If you’re ready.”

When the light changes, they cross Fifth Avenue together, towards Atlas and his world.


	16. Carol

“I don’t want to alarm you,” Leonard says, “but I don’t think any of these books are in English.”

“I know,” she says, still looking at the bookshelf in front of her. “It’s a French bookstore. They’re all in French.”

“Did you mean to bring us here?” he asks.

“Yes, I did,” she says. “Why are you whispering?”

He leans towards her, putting a hand up beside his face. “I have no idea,” he says.

Carol snorts with laughter then claps a hand over her mouth in embarrassment. He laughs and she can’t remember if she’s ever heard him laugh before.

“I’m just going to ask if they have what I’m looking for,” she says. At the counter, the clerk puts down his copy of _Cahiers du Cinéma_ as she approaches.

“ _Pardonnez-moi, monsieur,”_ she says. “ _Avez-vous_ Bonjour Tristesse _de Françoise Sagan?_ ” Leonard’s eyebrows raise.

“Yes, of course; please wait here,” the clerk says. He disappears behind a stack of books.

“What did you ask him for?” Leonard asks.

“A book. I saw the movie and I wanted to see how the book compared.”

“Go on,” he says, starting to smile. “Say something else. Anything.”

“Oh… no, I couldn’t. I’m too rusty and my accent is awful,” she says. The smile starts to fade and he looks around. They’re the only ones in the store.

“Okay, but just this once,” she says. She takes a deep breath. “ _Je pense que tu es très beau et je crois que j'ai un béguin pour toi_.”

Her face grows hot. He shakes his head.

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you just said, but it sure sounded nice,” he says. 

“I only said… I think you and I should go get lunch,” she says. The clerk returns with her book and she steps up to the counter to buy it.

#

They sit across from each other in the luncheonette booth and begin to fill the gaps in their knowledge of each other. She tells him speaks French because her maternal grandmother was from Normandy. Her family would sometimes spend summers there. He says he also spent his summers with his grandparents.

“I think you said you have a brother, right?” she says, sipping her coffee.

“Yeah,” he says. He looks down at the table. “I, uh… I _did_ have a brother. He died when I was a kid, though.”

She swallows hard. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” she says.

“It’s okay. You couldn’t have known.” He clears his throat. “My mother’s my only family now,” he says, looking up again. “It happened a long time ago. My brother and my dad went out on the lake to go fishing, I guess, and… they never came back.”

“B-both of them?” she asks. “But _how_?”

He makes a small shrug, the palms of his hands outstretched, and she wants to take his hand, to offer him some sort of comfort.

“It’s okay, though, honest,” he says. “It was a long time ago.”

_What kind of man,_ she thinks, _wants to console you over his own loss?_

“I just… I’m so sorry I brought it up,” she says. “What would you like to talk about instead?”

“Show me that guide book you’ve got with you,” he says. She hands it over and he leafs through it. He licks his finger to turn a page and she catches sight of his crooked bottom teeth. It feels strangely intimate to her, this hidden imperfection.

She peers over and points out the places she’s been: the Brooklyn Bridge, the Metropolitan Museum, the main branch of the public library.

“That’s probably my favorite,” she says of the library. “It’s not very far from here. We could… go there now, I mean, if you have time.”

“I’ve got all the time in the world today,” he says.

#

Once they reach the library, she studies his face. Earlier, as they walked into the cathedral, the expression of wonder on his face was more than she expected. She felt like she’d given him the most amazing gift and she wanted to go on giving, every last treasure the city had to offer. St. Patrick’s Cathedral was grand, but all cathedrals are. The library, she felt, was much more magnificent.

He seems impressed when they walk in and she gives him a moment to look around before she urges him towards the stairs. “Come on, this way, come on,” she says.

After they race up three flights of stairs, he stops to catch his breath.

“You ready? It’s just through there,” she says. She points to the double doors leading to the catalog room and tries not to squirm with excitement. As they make their way through the catalogs, she has an idea.

“Don’t look,” she says. “Just… look down at the floor and I’ll lead you in. Trust me.” She holds him by the arm, walking him into the reading room, and when they reach the center, she stops him. 

She looks around the reading room as if she too is seeing it for the first time: the perfect, straight rows of tables, the intricate details carved into the wood of every corner, the fresco of perfect clouds overhead. This, she knew, was her cathedral, although she could never admit as much to him. No sermons, no litanies, just the quiet creak of wooden chairs and the rustle of pages turning.

She releases his arm and points to two chairs at a nearby table. He pulls the chair out for her and when he sits, she slides closer to him.

“I think I’d sit here all day if I could,” she whispers. “You’d better let me know when you get bored and want to leave.” She catches the faintest hint of aftershave, cool and mossy like the shade of a tall tree. He nods and mouths _okay_.

She settles back and looks up. The afternoon sun streams through the windows and lights up the painted clouds on the ceiling, making them appear almost real. He follows her gaze upward. He tips his head all the way back. _He looks like a little boy_ , she thinks _. I wonder what he was like. As serious as he is now?_

After a moment, he leans towards her. “I think I see why you like it here,” he says. His breath is warm on her ear.

#

When she returns home to her apartment, she closes the door behind her and gingerly eases off her shoes.

They were just going to walk to the next subway station but the afternoon was so nice, they just kept walking up Broadway. They talked about everything and nothing—movies they liked, foods they hated—until they realized they were a few blocks from home. By the time he walked her to her apartment, she felt as if days had passed since she’d found him waiting at her door this morning.

“We should do this again sometime,” she said while they stood there, not quite looking at each other.

Now she turns on the tap and gasps as the cold water runs over her blistered feet _. I made it sound like we were on a date,_ she thinks _. He was nice enough about it, though_.

He smiled and said yes, maybe they could visit one of the historic churches downtown. She said, yes, of course and told him goodbye and went inside.

She dries off her feet and begins to paint her blisters with Mercurochrome. When she hears Jim coming in the door, she hurries to finish and goes to greet him. She takes his coat and hat and hangs them by the door.

“How was your day?” she asks.

He shrugs. “Fine,” he says. “Long.” He takes a beer from the fridge and presses it to his forehead for a moment before opening it. The bottle cap clatters into the sink. “What happened to you?” he asks, pointing to the little bandages covering her feet.

“New shoes,” she says.

“How was the cathedral?”

“Fine,” she says. “The same as ever.”

“So… what did you two talk about?” he asks.

She pauses. “Oh… I don’t know,” she says. “This and that. The cathedral, mostly.” She realizes she didn’t mention Jim at all today. She didn’t avoid talking about him, not exactly. He simply never came up.

“Good,” Jim says. “That sounds good.” He tosses the empty beer into the trash and sighs. “You want to do anything tonight? Go out and see a movie or something?”

She cringes at the thought of doing anything besides sitting at home after such a long day. She steps up in front of him and lays her hands on the front of his chest. “Why don’t you head out on your own, hmm?” she asks. “You haven’t done that in ages.”

“I dunno,” he says. He glances over her shoulder towards the door. She knows he’s already made up his mind, and now he just wants her to insist.

“Oh, go ahead,” she says. _You’ve been irritable and bored every Friday night for weeks now,_ she thinks. _Just get out and have a good time already_.

“Well,” he says. “If you really don’t want me around, I suppose I can go find something else to do…” He grins at her and she thinks he looks like a kid who’s gotten out of doing chores. She finds it hard not to smile back.

“Go have fun,” she says. “Tell me all about it later.” He kisses her goodbye and she locks the door after him when he leaves.

She tunes into the country-and-western station on the radio and puts the kettle on the stove. While she waits for it to boil, she gets her copy of _New York City Guide_ from her purse and begins to thumb through it, humming to herself.

#

She goes to the supermarket on Broadway, knowing she’ll pass the rectory on her way there and back. She doesn’t plan to stop or even slow down but as she walks by the building, her eyes linger over it behind her sunglasses. 

_I wonder which room is his_ , she thinks.

She imagines how she might look as she goes by, the sway of her hips in a thin summer dress and the long line of her neck bared to the sun. She feels herself smiling, a small secret smile _._

#

As she leaves the store, she sees him. He’s walking with another man, perhaps a little older than Leonard, with jet black hair and eyebrows that nearly meet in the middle. The man gestures as he talks, holding a piece of paper in one hand. Leonard nods and looks around as if he isn’t listening. Seeing him with another priest snuffs her expansive mood and she almost walks the other way. Instead, she pushes her sunglasses up onto her hair and waits for him to see her. When he does, they both approach her.

“Brother Felix, this is Mrs. Kirk,” he says. Then, he turns to Carol. “Felix and I both live at the rectory.”

“How do you do,” Felix says, as he shakes her hand. “I heard you were kind enough to show Father Leonard around St. Patrick’s.”

“It was my pleasure, really,” she says.

Felix nods and looks from Carol to Leonard and back again. “I’ve got to get the shopping done so I’ll let you catch up. It was nice meeting you,” he says, walking away.

“I almost didn’t recognize you with those sunglasses on,” he says. “I was sort of hoping I’d run into you sometime soon.”

“Oh?” She shifts her grocery bag from one hip to the other.

“I, uh, was reading in the paper that there’s some art on loan from the Vatican at one of the museums,” he says. “I’ve never been, and I was sort of wondering if maybe you'd like to go with me…”

“That sounds lovely,” she says. She looks away and smiles.

“Are you free this Friday?” he asks.

# 

The next week, they board a crowded crosstown bus to the Metropolitan Museum. She clings to the strap but the bus still bounces her against Leonard at every lurching stop. She stoops down a little to see which street they’ve passed and when she stands, his eyes dart away. She glances down, checking her appearance, and realizes he could have easily caught a glimpse down the front of her dress.

_And_ _I thought maybe you didn’t like girls_ , she thinks.

At the museum, they survey a collection of Etruscan vases and illuminated manuscripts set behind glass. They say little and often wander away from each other, until one of them says _here, come and look at this_. After they pass through the entire exhibit, she takes him to see the old European masters, her favorites. She pauses by a Caravaggio painting of musicians. In the foreground, a boy with luminous skin sits with his back to her. She’s struck by a need to stretch her hand out, as if she could reach into the painting and caress the boy’s naked flesh.

Outside, they each buy a hot dog from a push cart then sit on the steps near some tourists. She tosses crumbs to the pigeons. She stretches out over the steps, knowing she must look a little indecent, but the sun is so warm on her legs after the chill of the museum. She crosses her ankles and props herself up on her elbows. From behind her sunglasses, she studies his profile. The white tab at his throat seems to blaze brighter in the sun.

“Did you always want to be a priest?” she asks. “Even when you were a kid?”

He shakes his head. “For years, I wanted to be a doctor,” he says. “Even spent a couple summers working for our family doctor, shadowing him, watching him help people, making them feel better. Being a priest isn’t all that much different, really, when you think about it.”

“I suppose not. But what changed your mind?” She rolls toward him, trying to get comfortable on the marble steps.

“Well, that doctor did. He brought me Thomas Merton’s _The Seven Storey Mountain_ …” He looks to her and she nods.

“I think I remember hearing about that,” she says. “He… became a monk or something, didn’t he?”

He nods. “At the time, it had just come out, and… well, this girl had broken off with me. For a while, I didn’t eat, didn’t sleep. My mother got worried and called the doctor and that book was his prescription.” She pictures a young, heartbroken Leonard, hardly more than a boy and her chest constricts.

“Anyhow,” he says. “I read it straight through, all in one go, then started over again from the beginning. I just knew… that was it for me. I started studying to get into the seminary and here I am.”

“Well… I think we can say that girl’s loss is—” _My gain_ , she thinks. “—the church’s gain, isn’t it?”

“That’s one way of thinking about it.” He smirks. “If she hadn’t left me, I almost certainly wouldn’t be here right now.” He turns to look at her and her head starts to buzz, like she’s had too much to drink.

“I bet you would have been a brilliant doctor. Maybe even a surgeon,” she says. “It looks as if you’ve got the hands for it.”

He can only stammer a bit and laugh. The buzzing sensation spreads out over her skin and she feels she’s just won without understanding what she was playing.

#

Before they go home, they tentatively discuss where they might like to go next week. She thinks some barrier between them has dropped away, left somewhere on the streets of Manhattan.

The next Friday they travel all the way downtown to St. Peter’s, the oldest Catholic church in the city. Afterward, they walk to the bottommost tip of Manhattan and ride the Staten Island Ferry. The wind is salty and fresh and whips at their hair. When they pass the Statue of Liberty in the harbor, they marvel at it, even though it’s smaller than either of them expected.

They visit the Cloisters uptown one week, and walk across the Brooklyn Bridge the next. Jim asks her what they talked about and she tells him what they saw or where they went. She doles out a fact or two about Leonard, but mostly she hoards these thoughts for herself. Some nights when it’s too hot to sleep, she takes what she knows about him and turns it over in her mind. _Reads Thomas Merton, no family except his mother, wanted to be a doctor._

One week, she learns the rectory still doesn’t have a television and she invites Leonard to watch Zane Grey Theatre with her Friday night. As she speaks, she wonders if she may have finally gone too far, asking him to come to her house while her husband is away. His forehead wrinkles and he studies his shoes.

“Is it… it any good?” he asks her.

She shrugs. “I like it,” she says. “But I really like Westerns.”

“I like Westerns, too,” he says and she files that away as well. _Likes Westerns_.

#

They sit at far opposite ends of the sofa, a bowl of popcorn like a chaperone between them. She switches the set on and they silently settle in to watch. Before the bank-robbery plot unfolds, they disagree over whether _Annie Get Your Gun_ is a musical or a Western.

“But there’s all that _singing_ in it,” he says.

“Gene Autry sings all the time,” she says. “And Roy Rogers.” 

“No, see, that’s _different_ ,” he says. “And don’t you roll your eyes at me, young lady.”

“‘Young lady’? How old do you think I am?” She leans toward him so he can study her. He takes her chin in his hand, turning her face to one side then the other, inches from his own. She watches his eyes flit over her features.

“...Twenty?” he asks.

“Twenty-two. Close enough.” She slips her hand around his wrist and slowly takes his hand from her face. She carries the empty popcorn bowl to the kitchen, then stands there for a moment to catch her breath. She refills the bowl and places it between them again when she returns. They go on talking and watching television together until the evening news comes on and Leonard goes home.

#

They make plans to watch TV again the next Friday, but eight o’clock comes and goes without word from Leonard. She knows it’s not like him to be late. He’s always early, like she is. She likes that about him. She turns the set on and starts to watch without him. She pays close attention to the plot so she can fill him in on what he’s missed when he shows up. _If he shows up,_ she thinks.

She watches a former Confederate soldier finally gain acceptance in the town of Unionists. Then the announcer is saying _and_ _now these words from our sponsor_ and he still isn’t there. She shuts off the set, puts her keys in the pocket of her dress and goes downstairs. Out on the street, there’s no sign of him, although she doesn’t know what she expected to find. A note? Some kind of barricade blocking his path?

Back in the empty apartment, she puts on her favorite Patsy Cline record to distract herself but she hardly hears it. _Maybe something happened to him_ , she thinks. She could call the rectory but it’s late and she doesn’t want to want to worry them for no reason. _Anyway, he might still show up… right?_

She pours herself a Coke and flips through the magazines on the coffee table before neatly arranging them again. She envisions a dozen harrowing accidents. He was struck by a car, he was pushed onto the subway tracks, he was beaten and left for dead.

_Or maybe he just stood you up_ , she thinks. That would be the most logical conclusion. She drags her nails over her scalp, thinking. _No_ , she decides and heads back down to the street.

At first, she almost hurries back inside to avoid the man she sees staggering down the sidewalk. But she takes a second look and rushes to him.

“Father McCoy,” she says. “What happened? Are you alright?”

“ _Leonard_ , please,” he says. “You can just… just _Leonard_ , okay?” He smells of liquor and he sways a little as he stands.

“Come on,” she says, tucking her arm under his. “Let’s sit you down and get some coffee into you.” She steers him down the block toward her home.

“Oh, it’s late, isn’t it?” he asks. “I’m sorry I’m late. I should have called or something but I just, oh, I didn’t know where else to go.”

She takes her keys from her pocket. After two tries, she gets the door open without releasing his arm. “Come on,” she says, pulling him inside and up the stairs. “Be careful.”

She locks the door behind them, guides him toward the couch, and goes to the kitchen. She tells him she’s going to make a strong pot of coffee.

“Oh, right, that’s… probably a good idea,” he says. “Felix sat me down and put a brandy in my hand and, and then he left me with the bottle, and…” He trails off into silence. She comes back from the kitchen and stands next to him.

“Leonard,” she says, his name sweet and strange in her mouth. “You still haven’t told me what’s happened.”

He hands her a letter on flowery stationery. She skims the note quickly _._

_Your mother… didn’t want to tell you herself… very sick… get home straight away if you want to see her while you still can._

He rests his head in his hands, and she realizes he’s not a priest to her any more. He’s something else, something more important. She looks at the back of his neck, exposed and vulnerable. She cautiously lays her hand there, stroking his hair.

“I don’t know what to do,” he says. “She’s all I, all I’ve _got_ —”

“Shh,” she says. "It'll be okay." She comes around and kneels in front of him, her face level with his. He rests his hands on his knees and sighs. Her hands hover close to his face, unsure where to land. Through his parted lips, she sees his crooked bottom teeth and something shifts in her.

She lays her hands on his face, the stubble of his cheeks prickling her palms. Then she softly kisses each of his closed eyes in turn, and his eyelids damp and trembling. She lets her forehead rest against his.

“It’s okay,” she says. 

She kisses the curved line near the corner of his mouth. She waits for him to recoil, to push her away, but he doesn’t. Her mouth grazes against his, lightly at first. 

“It’s okay,” she says again. She presses a kiss to his bottom lip and hears his breath catch. She starts to pull away but he kisses her back with an urgency that surprises her. He takes her hands from his face and draws her arms up around his neck. She presses forward, planting her knees on either side of where he sits, hovering over him. His head rests back against the couch, his eyes closed.

She kisses him along his jaw, her nose nudging at the curves of his ear, and he gasps as she nips at his earlobe. Her fingers thread though his dark hair while she kisses his throat, just where his pulse pounds under his skin. His mouth tastes of brandy and she feels dazed, lightheaded, as if she too were drunk. 

He buries his face in her neck and inhales deeply. His tongue flickers against the hollow of her throat and her fingers tighten in his hair. She deftly flicks her skirt out from underneath her, exposing her thighs to him. He runs his hands over her bare legs, from her hips to her knees and back again. She seeks out his mouth again, kissing him deeply and he pulls her closer until she’s firmly in his lap, his hands tight on her hips. Every touch of his hands, every soft sound he makes, incites her even more, propelling her onward. 

She slides closer until she can feel him, hard against her inner thigh. She suddenly wonders if he’s ever done this before and the thought electrifies her. She wants to be his first—his only—to claim all of him for herself. She plunges a hand between their bodies and palms his cock. She can nearly feel the heat of it through the fabric of his pants. 

He puts his hand on hers and she’s certain he’s going to tell her _no, don’t, you shouldn’t, we can’t_ , but he presses her hand down onto him. His hips twitch and he thrusts up against her hand artlessly. She tries to wrap her hand around the length of him as best she can through layers of clothing but it’s not enough. She takes her hand away and pushes her hips against his, aching for more of his body against hers. He makes a desperate noise deep in his chest, animalistic and profane. She braces herself against the back of the couch for leverage and they press against each other frantically before their hips synch into rhythm. 

She leans in and lets her teeth scrape against his neck. He smells so good to her, like liquor and aftershave, but underneath that, the smell of his skin, rising up from under his stiff black collar. She sucks an angry red welt onto his skin, marking him as hers, past caring who might see it. Her thighs clamp tight over his hips, riding him, harder and faster. All her thoughts have dwindled down to one bright point _: don't stop. Don't stop, don’t stop_.

From the door, the sound of a key fumbling in the lock.

They freeze, without looking at each other. The keys clatter again; the doorknob rattles. Her blood turns cold. She grabs his face and kisses him hard, then pulls herself away. She fixes her clothes and hair, then walks across the room slowly, her back straight, her chin up.

Before she reaches the door, she hears the yip of a small dog.

"Mrs. Kline, you don't live here," she says, opening the door. On her doorstep, the woman's tiny white dog barks in earnest.

"Taffy, stop!" Mrs. Kline says. "I'm sorry, dear. I got turned around again, I suppose."

Carol takes the woman by the arm gently but her heart is still hammering in her chest. She escorts Mrs. Kline down the long hallway, opens the woman’s door and ushers her and the dog inside.

"Here we are," Carol says, with forced good cheer. "Good night." When she turns around, she sees her apartment door is sitting open. She breaks into a run.

The room is empty. He's gone. She dashes out again.

"Leonard?" she calls. Her steps ring in the empty stairwell as she runs downstairs. She crosses the building’s lobby and wrenches the door open. When she reaches the street, she calls his name again, louder. It echoes back off the concrete, mocking her. _Leonard?_

She looks as far as she can in every direction but the street is empty. She walks to the corner, the same one he must have passed to head home. As she stands there, she hears the faint sounds of someone nearby having a party, voices and music and laughter, and suddenly feels even more alone.

She returns to her building, each step heavier than the last. When she gets home, she locks the door behind her but she doesn’t look at the couch in the living room. She puts on a nightgown, then washes her face and combs her hair but she doesn’t look at her face in the bathroom mirror.

She turns off all the lights and gets into bed. When her eyes adjust to the dark, she curls up and stares at the empty place in bed next to her.


	17. Leonard

The rhythm of the Crescent clattering over the tracks doesn't lull Leonard to sleep. Instead, he lies in his train berth, watching the ceiling, thinking _faster, come on, faster_.

The night he left Carol’s apartment, he had no idea what to do with himself. She stepped out the door and he knew, if she came back and told him to stay, he needed to say no. And if she told him to go, he would have been shattered. So he simply fled without giving her the chance to say either. 

He staggered into bed and woke late the next morning. He’d barely opened his eyes before the weight of everything that had happened the day before fell on him. Carol. His mother. _Oh God, my mother._

He got out of bed and held his head in hands, trying to think of what he ought to do next. _Home,_ he thought. _I have to get home._ When he went downstairs, Felix was waiting at the kitchen table. He took a look at Leonard and told him to go get himself cleaned up; he’d take care of the rest. While Leonard showered and dressed, Felix packed a suitcase and a sack lunch. He borrowed ten dollars from the rectory’s petty cash then drove Leonard to Penn Station.

“Listen, Walt,” Felix said, parking the car. Leonard braced himself for the reprimand that was surely coming. _Where did you go last night?_ _What were you thinking?_

“Go to the ‘Will Call’ counter and pick up your ticket there,” Felix said. “It’s a long trip so try and get some sleep while you can. Now, come on.” Felix got the suitcase from the trunk and handed it over, along with the food and cash.

As Leonard stood there on the sidewalk with his hands full, Felix embraced him. “I’m sorry about your mother,” he said close to Leonard’s ear. He wanted to thank Felix, not just for arranging his passage back to Georgia, but for everything, for being his friend, maybe his only friend now. But Leonard could only look down and nod dumbly.

“Go on,” Felix said. “Go and get your train home.”

#

Once on board, he settled into his berth but didn't stay there long. He hung around in the dining car, the observation car, anywhere to keep from being alone with his thoughts. People always seemed willing to strike up meaningless conversations with a man of the cloth. _Hello, Padre, where you heading?_ When it became too late to linger, he climbed into his berth and let the sounds of the train put him to sleep.

He opened his window when they crossed into Georgia. He’d never noticed it before but there was a certain smell to the air, humid and vegetal, almost swampy. When he got off the train in Atlanta, he caught a ride with a vacationing family. They took him as far as Smyrna, down a new highway that cut a swath across the familiar countryside. He hitched from there, although the sun was far hotter than he remembered. After an hour, a chicken farmer stopped for him, feathers flying from the back of his truck. He delivered Leonard right to his mother’s front door. _No need to thank me, Father,_ the farmer said. _Just give my regards to the man upstairs._

Leonard stood on his mother’s porch a moment, ignoring the peeling paint and the tear in the screen door. He took a deep breath and let himself in.

“Mama?” he called out. “Mama, it’s just me, Walt. Don’t be scared.” He stepped into the house slowly, afraid he might startle her, but she was nowhere to be found. The house was as tidy as ever. His mind eased a little, knowing she could still take care of things inside, if not outside. He looked around the first floor of the silent house, then climbed the stairs. He tapped on her bedroom door before opening it.

It took him a moment to recognize the woman in bed as his mother. She was so small now, so gray. Even her skin seemed gray. He could hear her breathing from across the room, wheezing and rattling. He sat at her bedside and stroked her hand, her skin papery and dry.

“Mama, wake up,” he said softly. Her eyelids fluttered. One eye opened, but the other drooped at half-mast. When she began to smile, he realized half of her face sagged, the skin hanging off the bones beneath. She asked him a question but her speech was slurred. When she asked again, he began to understand her.

“When did I get here?” he repeated. “Just now, not fifteen minutes ago. Cousin Ruthie wrote me a letter, told me you weren't feeling well, so I thought I’d drop in and see if I could cheer you up.”

“Ruth'ssss… been taking care… of me,” she said. Her eyes began to close again.

“You just rest now and I’ll be here when you wake up, okay?” He gave her hand a gentle squeeze and left her to sleep.

Downstairs, he collapsed into a kitchen chair and buried his face in his hands. When he was small, his mother would stay in bed for weeks at a time, too despondent to notice him. Aunts or cousins or grandparents would take him in. At night, he’d lie awake, fretting over her. Every time, he wondered if she would ever get well again, but she always rallied. He would be brought home and she’d tell him how sorry she was. Then she’d stoop down and hold his small hands in hers and ask him if he still liked silver dollar pancakes. He’d eat until he felt sick, just to show her how happy he was that she was better again. He could still see her, standing at the stove with one hand on her hip, staring into the pan and waiting for the precise moment to turn them.

He heard the crunch of tires on the gravel driveway outside. He hastily pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his face and blew his nose. He opened the door just as Ruth’s car pulled up.

“Leonard McCoy… my God, look at you!” she said. “Come over here and kiss me—you are allowed to do that, right?”

“Yes, Ruthie, I am still allowed that much,” he said, bending down to kiss her cheek.

“Let me look at you,” she said, holding him at arm’s length. She sighed. “You look more like your daddy every time I see you. You just get here?”

He nodded. “Maybe half an hour ago. I would have called but I just got on the first train I could… oh, Ruth,” he said. “How long has she been like that?”

“A while now. Couple months ago, I found her lying on the kitchen floor when I stopped by and she said she just had a dizzy spell. She seemed fine but next morning, she couldn't use her arm or leg so good on one side.” She tucked her arm in his as they walked up to the porch. “Then a few weeks ago, it suddenly got worse. She started talking funny, not remembering things. Sometimes she’d ask me when you were getting home from school… or worse, asking when your daddy and your brother would be getting back.”

He closed his eyes for a moment before he could speak. “What’d you tell her?”

“Well, the truth, at first,” she said. “I told her they was in an accident and they died and sometimes she’d say, ‘oh, yeah, yeah, I knew that,’ but lately… it’s like she don’t remember it at all. So, now I just tell her, ‘Soon, Millie, they’ll be here real soon.’”

#

The days quickly began to blur together. Every morning, before Ruth arrived, his mother awoke almost clear-headed. He would sit and talk to her, trying to impress every moment into his memory. She formed words slowly, laboriously. She often told him how glad she was to see him, how proud she was of the man he’d become. Other times, she became distraught, apologizing for the times she’d left him in the care of others. Tears spilled from her eyes and he’d hurry to quiet her. _It’s alright, Mama,_ he told her. _Everything turned out alright in the end_.

When Ruth arrived, she took over his mother’s care, washing her, feeding her, combing her hair. Ruth chattered the whole time. Her voice carried throughout the house: gossip about the neighbors or memories of the things they did together when their kids were small. When his mother slept, Ruth cleaned and cooked and hung out the wash. Sometimes he would find Ruth dead asleep in an armchair. _Your mama’s the closest thing I ever had to a sister_ , she told him one day. _There’s nothing I wouldn't do for her, nothing_.

He tried to keep busy when Ruth was around. She brought some of her husband’s old clothes and Leonard spent his days finding things that needed fixing. He mended holes in screens, trimmed hedges, cut grass, pulled weeds. He hated these chores even more now than he did as a kid. At least his back never ached back then. He would come in tired, filthy and sore, but the work kept him from thinking about any one thing for too long.

As each day wore on, his mother grew increasingly distressed. Sometimes she would ask where his brother and father were, when they would be back. 

“They've gone fishing, Ma, remember?” he said each time. “They went up to the lake to go fishing. They’re probably out in the rowboat right now, catching a couple striped bass.” He could almost see them as he spoke: two faces he scarcely remembered, on a little boat in the middle of a misty lake. He didn't think about how the rowboat washed ashore upside down on the far side of the lake, or how his brother and father were never seen again.

“Tomorrow,” he told her. “They’ll be back tomorrow.”

Around suppertime each night, Ruth went home to her husband. _I can sleep so much easier now_ , she kept telling him, _knowing you’re here if she needs anything_. Ruth rigged an old cow bell to his mother’s bedside with some rope and just a little pull would set it clanging. Every night, he fell asleep listening for the bell, always ready to spring out of bed, but it never rang.

#

“I’m amazed she’s hung on as long as she has,” Dr. Marcus said. “Not much either of us can do but keep her comfortable, son.” He stopped by once a week and always walked back down the stairs shaking his head. He was gray at the temples now, but he was still the same doctor Leonard looked up to as a kid.

“How’s life as a man of the cloth?” he asked one afternoon in the kitchen, as he tucked into a slice of Ruth’s plum cake. “Can’t say I really expected to see you like this when I gave you that book all those years ago.”

“Someone was just asking me recently if I’d always wanted to be a priest,” Leonard said. “I told ‘em when I was a kid, I wanted to be a doctor like you.”

“How old are you now, son? Twenty-seven or so?” Leonard nodded and the doctor did as well, frowning slightly. “Well… I reckon it’s still not too late to change your mind. You always were a smart kid.”

Leonard just laughed a bit and offered the doctor another cup of coffee.

#

One morning, he went in to wake his mother and he knew she was gone before he even crossed the room. The air was still and empty. He sat on the chair next to her bed. He touched her hand and found it waxy and cold. When he held his hand just over her mouth and pressed his fingers to the side of her neck, he found nothing. He got up and opened the window as far as it would go. The cool morning air stirred the lacy curtains and, somewhere beyond the window, a crow squawked. He sat down again.

He’d always assumed she would continue to deteriorate, like watching embers turning to ash. He should have read to her, he thought, the way she read to him when he had the measles. He would have read from her favorite book, _Little Women_ , the book she won in a spelling bee as a girl. Her name was still legible inside its cover: _First Prize, Millicent O’Brien, 1910_. It was too late now. No more time for reading. Not even time to say goodbye.

He was entirely alone in the universe.

He sat there until he heard Ruth coming up the drive. He went downstairs and opened the front door and she froze, still halfway out of her car. He just shook his head, and Ruth sank back into the car and began to sob.

Once he brought Ruth inside, he called the doctor, told him what had happened, and started making coffee. He felt as if he was looking over his own shoulder as he scooped the coffee and filled the percolator, detached from all that was happening. The doctor came and disappeared upstairs for a while. When he came back down again, Leonard accepted his condolences and thanked him for everything he’d done for his mother.

Ruth pulled herself together and began making phone calls. Soon, an army of women filled the house—cousins, aunts, neighbors. They arrived with pies and casseroles, then proceeded to scrub and polish every surface of the house. A few of the older women pinched his face like he was still a boy. Then Ruth’s husband, Earl, arrived with the men, uncles and cousins. They held their hats in their hands as they told Leonard how sorry they were. They moved the furniture around in the parlor and set up planks on top of sawhorses. They carried a pine box upstairs then brought it down again, setting it down on the planks gently, as if trying not to wake its occupant.

By late afternoon, there was a stream of people coming in and out, some he recognized and some he didn’t. They filled the place, spilling out on to the porch and into the yard. They brought homemade liquor and flowers, freshly cut from their yards. One of his cousins took out a fiddle and sat on the porch playing something slow and sad. Ruth bustled here and there, taking charge, seeing that everyone got fed. Every once in a while, she came round to him where he sat in an armchair. _You okay?_ she kept asking. _You want anything?_ He told her he was fine, but in truth, he was exhausted, right down to his bones.

When it got dark and the house began to empty, Ruth shooed him upstairs. _You go on to bed_ , she insisted _. We’ll set with your mama until morning, don’t you worry_. He was too tired to disagree. He knelt at the foot of his childhood bed to pray for his mother’s soul. Hours later, he woke, still kneeling there, and his legs stung when the blood returned to them.

The next day, they laid his mother to rest in the McCoy family cemetery, between two empty plots marked for his brother and father. Cicadas buzzed high in the trees.

“Into Your hands, O Lord, we humbly entrust your servant, Millicent Frances McCoy,” Leonard said. “May the Lord bless her and keep her, make His face to shine upon her and be gracious to her, the Lord lift up His countenance upon her and give her peace. Amen.” There was a soft chorus of _amens_ around him, and then the wooden box with his mother inside was lowered into the ground.

After Ruth brought him home, she begged him to let her know if he needed anything: _anything at all, you just call me_. He thanked her again for everything. He could have thanked her a hundred times, a thousand, and it wouldn’t have expressed how grateful he was. When she left, he made himself a chicken sandwich and poured a glass of buttermilk. Then, even though it was the middle of the day, he walked upstairs and went to bed. He woke in the middle of the night, ate a slice of cherry pie, and went back to bed again.

He got up the next morning just after sunrise. He sat on the porch in his undershirt and watched the dew evaporate off the grass. He felt… relieved, although he wasn’t happy about it. For the first time he could remember, he knew his mother was free from worry, free from the bouts of sadness that shadowed her. He imagined her at some ethereal stove, young again, but still with the same look of intense concentration. He saw her creating an infinite stack of tiny, perfect flapjacks, bringing them to his father and brother, from now until Judgment Day. He laughed out loud thinking about it, until his eyes stung with tears.

#

After a few days alone, Ruth dropped by to check up on him. She complimented him on what he’d said at his mother’s graveside and said what a shame it is that people only really get together like that when someone dies. She peered into her coffee cup and fidgeted in her chair.

“So… when are you thinking of heading back to New York?” she asked, at last.

“You trying to get rid of me already, Ruthie?” he said.

She clucked at him. “You know I ain’t. I just… well, it’s so nice, you being here. I was hoping maybe you might want think about staying.”

Leonard froze, his cup halfway to his mouth. He hadn’t considered it. “I’d have to think about it,” he said. “Say, would you… bring me to the church in town tomorrow?”

“I can do better than that,” Ruth said, patting his hand. “I’ll leave the car here with you and have Earl come pick me up.”

For the rest of the day, Leonard wandered around the house, looking at it with new eyes. _Could I live here?_ he thought. When he arrived weeks ago, he found it hard to sleep without the sound of traffic below his window, but he'd readjusted just fine. It would mean no Felix, he supposed. No busy streets, no cathedrals, no museums, no… Carol.

He cautiously let himself think of her, like prodding a broken tooth to find where it hurt. He shied away from the physical details and instead thought in general about what had happened. He posed questions to himself as if he were his own confessor.

_Why did you seek her out?_ Because I knew she was waiting for me. Because I didn’t know who else I could turn to. Because I needed to.

_Why didn’t you push her away?_ I’d been drinking. It was a lapse in judgment. I don’t know why.

_Are you sorry for what happened?_

He didn’t have an answer.

He pruned the climbing roses in the back yard, cleaned and oiled all the tools in the shed. He took a bath, made himself supper, listened to the radio. Still, he didn’t have an answer. He went to bed and listened to the wind and the crickets outside. He laid with his hands folded on his chest, still thinking.

_No_ , he decided at last. _I’m not._

_Forgive me, Lord,_ he prayed _. Forgive me for breaking my vow of chastity and worse, for leading a good woman down a path of sin with me…_

He paused. He knew he should feel more repentant, that he should humble himself and beg for God’s mercy. But as he thought about what he’d done, he found he didn’t wish to erase even a second of it. He was sorry it had happened, he knew that, but another part of him was just as sorry that it would never happen again. 

Now, in the dark, he surrendered to the thoughts he'd been pushing away for so long: her mouth on his, her skin tasting of salt, her hands. He squirmed just remembering it. _God help me, the feel of her hands on me._

His mind kept returning to the moment when they heard a noise at the door. They were both so sure they were caught and yet she didn’t spring away from him with guilt or shame. Instead, she kissed him. She took his face in her hands and _kissed_ him. And it felt protective, almost possessive. It made him feel like he belonged.

_And then I left_ , he thought. _I was so sure she was going to push me away, but then why did she kiss me like that? Oh my God, why did I leave?_

He covered his face with his hands and groaned. He thought about the deliberate way she rose from the couch, drawing herself up and walking to the door, her eyes forward and her chin up. 

_What if…_ he asked himself. _What if she’s not sorry either?_

#

When he drove to town the next day, he intended to go to the local Catholic parish and make a clean confession of everything he’d done. He pulled Ruth’s car into the little lot behind the church, waited a moment, then drove away, straight to Dr. Marcus’s house. He had a new nurse now, younger and prettier, but otherwise, his office was the same, right down to the antiseptic smell.

“What seems to be the trouble today?” the doctor asked as he washed his hands. “Stomach trouble from all those old ladies feeding you?”

Leonard laughed. “No, it’s not that. I’ve got a problem and, well, I didn’t know who else I could ask.”

The doctor sat at his desk. “If you came to me, then I’m guessing it’s either a crisis of faith or girl trouble… it’s not girl trouble, is it?” Leonard felt himself cringing. The doctor sighed and shook his head. “Just tell me what happened.”

Leonard got straight to the point. There was a parishioner he’d been spending some time with. She was kind, she was beautiful, she was smart… and just before he left New York, she kissed him and he can’t stop thinking about it.

“And not just a peck on the cheek to say goodbye, I’m guessing,” Dr. Marcus asked. He steepled his fingers, as he did when he was making a diagnosis.

“Have you spoken to her since you’ve been here? Letters, phone calls, anything?” He eased his chair back from the desk.

“Well, son, could be you’re just buildin’ castles in the air. Maybe you’re setting yourself up for a fall. Then again, maybe not.” He shrugged. “But if you stay here too long, you’ll never find out.”

#

After he left the doctor's office, he drove around for a while. The Woolworth's downtown was a supermarket now. His old school had been replaced with a bigger one. Otherwise, little had changed since he’d last seen the town. The houses were the same. The people, too. He thought it would be reassuring, but it only felt small. 

He bought a bag of peaches from a roadside stand and ate one as he drove, licking the juice as it ran down his wrist. Before he arrived home, he’d made a wide circuit around most of the county, just driving and thinking. The house was dark and empty when he got in. He realized he missed watching Felix cook. He missed saying _the usual, Margaret_ as he slid into his favorite booth at the diner. He missed walking down Broadway in the middle of the afternoon and being around so many people, even if they were all people he didn’t know. 

He had to go back.

#

“I’ll miss you, Ruthie. I really will.” He watched the familiar countryside stream past his window. He wondered if he would ever see it again and, in his head, he said goodbye to it all.

“Can’t believe you were only here a couple months,” Ruth said, easing her car into the highway traffic. 

He nodded. “Seems like longer and it seems like no time at all.”

“Well, the house will always be there for you if you want to come back,” she said.

He pictured his mother’s house, vacant and unloved. “Oh… no, that house really ought to have a family in it again. Please, Ruth. Find some nice family and let it out to them. I couldn’t live knowing that poor old house was going empty.”

Ruth drove him all the way to Atlanta, even though he insisted he could catch a ride some other way. She came in and sat with him inside the train station while they waited for the Crescent to arrive from New Orleans.

“You know, I ain’t ever been out of Georgia,” Ruth said, as she watched porters hustling suitcases onto a departing train. “Maybe I’ll hop this train myself one day, come up and surprise you.”

“God bless you, Ruthie.” He put his arm around her shoulder and kissed the top of her head. “There is nothing I would like better in this entire world. You go right ahead and do just that.”

When the train pulled away from the station just after noon, he waved to Ruth from the window until he could no longer see her. He settled into his berth and ate one of the peaches he’d bought. He savored it, knowing he would not taste another like it again soon.

Somewhere around Charlotte, he fell asleep.

#

He wakes just as the train leaves Washington, shortly after four o’clock in the morning. He realizes the next stop is New York City and now he’s too excited to go back to sleep. He lies in his berth and drums his fingers on his chest to the rhythm of the train.

_Come on, train_ , he thinks. _Bring me home._


	18. Carol

She unlatches the bathroom stall then washes her hands in the little sink. In the dingy mirror, she dabs powder on the dark circles under her eyes but it doesn’t help. She looks tired. She is tired. She applies a fresh coat of lipstick, and leaves the restroom to go to Professor Scott’s office.

“And what sort of time do you call this, eh?” he asks as she comes in.

She looks at her watch in a panic. “Am… am I late, sir?” she asks.

“No, but you’re _two_ minutes early instead of your usual fifteen,” he says. “And enough with the ‘sir’—just ‘Professor Scott’ will do nicely, thank you.” She smiles but doesn’t relax.

Applying for graduate school had been a hasty decision. She went to nearly all her former professors, needing at least three recommendations her for her last-minute application. She went to professors she’d known and worked with for years, men who knew her and what she could do, and still she struggled to find three. _Wouldn’t you rather be starting a family, dear?_ one of them asked, and patted her hand. She forced herself to smile before thanking him and leaving his office. 

Once her application was completed and she was accepted, she scrambled to land a position as a teaching assistant. She went to every professor in the astronomy department. A few of them accepted her transcripts and a copy of her thesis. Some turned her away before she could offer. She thought she’d found a place with Professor Shulman but a week later, he found a male student instead and told her she wasn’t needed. _I’m sorry,_ the man said, _but I need to have someone I know will stick around._

She began to grow desperate. She’d graduated with a minor in physics and tried that department next, only to receive the same treatment again. She began to fear she’d never find a position until Professor Roland Scott agreed to take her on as one of his teaching assistants. He was Scottish and unlike her, he wore his foreignness like a badge of honor, making no effort to stamp out the burr in his speech. 

“About time t’get me a lass who can make a proper cup of tea,” he told her with a wink. She suspected he saw her as little more than a secretary or worse, he felt sorry for her. But she quickly found that he both made his own tea and treated her no differently than his male graduate students.

Now, in his office, he hands over a stack of test papers. “Here we are,” he says. “Graded and back on my desk by Monday, can you do that?”

She rifles through the stack, probably fifty tests in all. “Of course,” she says.

Professor Scott shakes his head. “I wish all my teaching assistants were as reliable as you. Do you think… y’can take on just a wee bit more?” he asks.

She forces herself to smile even wider. “Of course I can,” she says.

He passes her at least half again as many papers and she wonders how much work his other assistants have to do. She packs the tests into her already overstuffed satchel and tells Professor Scott to enjoy his weekend.

It's hardly more than a month into graduate school and already she feels like she’s drowning. She finds her new workload challenging, almost punishing, but exploring theories about the universe means everything to her. At times, she feels herself looking over her own shoulder in the lecture hall, overwhelmed by awe at where she is.Her job as teaching assistant never seems to grow easier. She constantly pretends to be at ease with being in charge of the classroom, but at the end of each class, she collapses into an office chair, the underarms of her blouse damp and cold. She buys a coffee from a pushcart and wraps her hands around the cup for its feeble warmth. 

_So dark out here already_ , she thinks, _and not even six o’clock yet_. 

She sits on a bench and watches the new co-eds pass. They look so young to her, even though she’s only four or five years older than most of them. She feels old a lot lately, old and bitter.

The coffee is watery and quickly becomes too cold to drink, but she drinks it all before throwing the cup away. She opens her satchel, looking for her wallet under so many papers. She throws away a handful of wadded Kleenex, a couple of ticket stubs, a broken rubber band. At the bottom of the bag, she takes out a letter, and although she’s read it at least a dozen times in the past few weeks, she opens it again.

_Dear Mrs. Kirk,_

_If you care about Father McCoy, I strongly suggest you stop writing to him_

_immediately, or else you will surely put him in a very precarious position with_

_the church._

_Signed,_

_A friend_.

She snorts. _A friend_. It had to be that sniffy Brother Felix she met that time. All her letters to Leonard— _Father McCoy_ , she corrected herself—were mailed without a return address. _How could that Felix have even known who they were from?_ she wonders. She imagines him steaming open the envelopes over a kettle, looking over his shoulder before reading them. _Worse than a jealous girl,_ she decides and stuffs the envelope back down into the bottom of the bag.

She knows now it was stupid to write to Father McCoy to begin with. The Sunday after he walked out on her, she spent an entire Mass rehearsing precisely how she’d ask one of the other priests about him. She imagined she was one of those middle-aged women who disguise their need for gossip with a veneer of concern.

“Oh, Father Lawrence... I’ve heard Father McCoy’s mother has taken ill, such a pity.” She even clucked her tongue and shook her head. “How is he holding up?” She tried to look curious but not too concerned.

He said Father McCoy went home to Georgia, but surely he’d appreciate her thinking of him. The rectory was forwarding his mail while he was away if she wished to send a card, he said, and she nodded thoughtfully.

Her notes were simple at first. She wrote only to say she hoped he was well and that his mother was getting better. She went to the Metropolitan Museum alone and wrote to him about the exhibit she’d seen. When she didn’t hear back, she told herself he was just too busy or too tired to reply, but surely he wouldn’t mind if she wrote him again. She wrote to him on Fridays, as she sat in her apartment alone. She bought a copy of _The_ _Seven Storey Mountain_ and told him she was reading it. She wrote about how insufferably hot the city had become and asked him about the weather in Georgia. 

Each time, she wanted to ask if he ever thought about her, or about what they did. She thought about it, lying in bed at night. She thought about the way he tasted when she kissed him and what might have happened if they hadn’t been interrupted. If he’d let his hands run further up her thighs, if she’d unbuckled his belt and slipped her hand into his pants. Sometimes, Jim would turn over in his sleep while she was thinking of Leonard and she’d freeze, holding her breath until Jim was still again.

One Friday night, she sat down and, with shaking hands, she wrote Leonard a letter that said she missed him. She missed his laugh and the smell of his aftershave, and she hoped he’d come home, come back to her. She ended the letter pleading with him to reply. She went down to the mailbox on the corner at nearly midnight, eager to get her note to him as quickly as she could, before she could change her mind.

Weeks passed. She buried herself in other projects. She baked cookies and cakes, foisting them off on neighbors she barely knew. Then August brought a heatwave and it was too hot to turn on the oven. She made recipes from magazines—cold soups, molded gelatins, elaborate salads—only to throw them away half-eaten, days later. When love songs came on the radio, she would leap up and switch it off to keep herself from daydreaming about him. She checked the mail three or four times a day.

One afternoon, she got a letter. The handwriting was unfamiliar. Her hands began to shake as she latched the mailbox shut. She bolted the apartment door when she went in and despite being alone, locked herself in the bathroom with the letter. She sat on the edge of the tub, feeling like her heart could burst.

She opened the envelope and found the anonymous note inside. _If you care about Father McCoy, I strongly suggest you stop writing to him immediately…_

She covered her face with her hands and felt her cheeks burn. In her head, she heard nothing, no thoughts, just a static hiss, like an untuned radio. After calmly refolding the letter, she let herself out of the bathroom and stuffed the envelope deep into her purse.

She sank onto the couch. There, on the coffee table, sat _The Seven Storey Mountain_. She stared at it a moment, then snatched it up and began ripping its pages out, yanking them from the binding, tearing them into pieces. Through clenched teeth, she hissed a stream of curses as bits of paper rained onto the floor. _Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck you, fuck you_.

She put her head on her knees and wept, howling sobs of humiliation and shame and anger. She asked herself how she could have been so stupid, what had she even been thinking. She collected the remains of the book in a paper bag and brought them down to the incinerator in the basement. The latch squealed as she pulled the hot metal door open. She tossed the paper sack into the flames, watching it catch fire before she closed the door again. She thought about writing a final letter to Father McCoy, asking him to burn all her letters. Instead, she decided to never speak to him again. Ever.

#

Jim never asked her what was wrong. He asked in a more roundabout way: why she lost her sudden interest in cooking, why she was so tired lately, why she seemed so upset during Mass. Her answer was always the same: _it’s nothing, I’m fine, really_. One night, after they’d both gone to bed, she rolled toward him, wrapped her arms around his neck and started to cry. When he stroked her hair, she only cried harder, and he held her close until she fell asleep.

The next morning, he left for work without waking her. By her alarm clock, she found a note: _Thought you could use the extra sleep_. 

She knew she could never tell Jim what she’d done. But, she thought, that didn’t mean that she shouldn’t try to make it up to him, try to atone for her failure as a wife. Every night, before he came home from work, she made sure her hair was combed and her lipstick was fresh. After dinner, she made a habit of sitting close to him on the sofa to watch television instead of sitting at her desk or reading.

“I was thinking,” he said, one night, still looking at the screen. “Maybe you need something to do. Something to keep yourself occupied.”

“Maybe you’re right,” she said. “I was actually thinking…. well, maybe it still wouldn’t be too late for me to apply to graduate school.”

He looked at her with disbelief. “Carol, you _just_ finished. Why would you want to go back and start all over again?”

“It’s not actually starting over; I’d be continuing what I’ve already done,” she said.

“How are we supposed to pay for it?” he asked.

“My grandfather’s will stipulated that any part of my education would be paid for…”

He rolled his eyes and she clenched her jaw.

“I’m just saying, it wouldn’t cost _us_ anything,” she said.

“Don’t you want to, I don’t know, have a baby, like Jo and Janice?” Jim said.

“I… yes, of course,” she said. “But does it have to be right _now_?” She felt her hands grow cold and damp. She tried to breathe slowly through her nose, willing herself not to cry.

He sighed. “Let’s just talk about it later, okay?” She pressed her lips together and nodded.

When she thought about it the next day, she told herself he hadn’t meant to be hurtful but all she heard was _why can’t you be more like other women?_

She found herself studying her face in the mirror. She was like other women… wasn’t she? She cleaned and cooked and took care of the people she loved. She liked perfume and pretty dresses and being admired by men.

But she also craved knowledge. She looked at the sky and needed to understand the way the universe worked, how it was created, how it would exist long after she was gone. Wasn’t that also important? Did wanting that make her inherently… less, somehow? Less feminine, less beautiful, less wanted? She leaned closer to the mirror but didn’t find any answers.

She looked around at the empty apartment. _Wouldn’t it be nice, though, to have a baby?_ It was her mother’s voice in her head, with that tone that implied _you ought to want this_.

_Don’t you want a house of your own instead of renting? Are you sure you wouldn’t be happier somewhere outside the city?_

_Wouldn’t it be nice, though, to have a baby?_

_Not now_ , she decided. _Not yet_.

She sat at her desk and took the application for graduate school out of a drawer. At the very least, she thought, she would apply, and if she got in… she would think about that later.

#

When her acceptance letter came, she held on to it for almost a week, waiting until she was ready. One night, when Jim arrived home, she had his favorite chicken casserole in the oven and two letters in the pocket of her apron. While they ate, she mentally checked over her list of what she wanted to say. _This is important to me. We have plenty of time to have a baby. My mother didn’t have me until she was thirty-one and I turned out fine. I want to do this. Please._

After dinner, he was about to turn on the television set when she told him to wait. She needed to talk to him about something. He froze for a second before asking what was on her mind. She handed him the acceptance letter.

“Oh,” he said. “Well, congratulations, I guess. Is this… what you want to do?”

“Yes,” she said. “It is.”

“What’s the other one?” he asked, pointing to the letter she still held.

“My father,” she said. “He says he can arrange to pay for my tuition.”

“Well, it’s your money. You can spend it however you like.”

She blinked. “Yes, I suppose it is,” was all she could think to say.

“Any other news from them?” he asked, putting his feet up on the coffee table.

She looked over both pages. “No, nothing really,” she said. “They’d still like to give us a graduation gift. He wants to know if we’d like help buying a house, a down payment or something.”

He snorted as he turned on the television. “Well, tell him _no_. Again.” 

She nodded.

“What do you wanna watch?” he asked.

“You go ahead,” she said, getting up from the couch.“I should really reply to these.”

#

_Maybe I should have agreed to a baby instead_ , she now thinks, watching the co-eds pass.

How many of them will drop out once they find a husband, she thinks. She tries to imagine what Janice and Christine are doing at this moment, snug in their houses, making dinner or tending to crying babies. She misses them, or at least she misses who they used to be. When there were no babies, no husbands, just the three of them in a dorm room, talking, playing records, learning to cook food on a hot clothes iron.

Maybe it all wouldn’t be so bad, she thinks, if she had friends to commiserate with, like she did then. At the graduate students’ social, the few women there were all Beatnik types, all wearing black eye makeup and tight cigarette pants. She wondered how she must’ve looked to them.

She opens her bag again and checks her wallet. _Probably enough for another coffee and a slice of pie at the diner_ , she thinks. _Then I’ll head home to grade these papers. I guess I should be happy it’s Friday._ The quiet of the empty apartment would help her get things done. She hefts her bag onto her shoulder and leaves the campus grounds through the wrought iron arch, out onto Broadway.

As she approaches the diner, she thinks about which kind of pie she wants _. Blueberry? No, apple_. She turns to look in through the windows, already trying to find the best place to sit, and she sees him.

Leonard.

Her pace slows but she doesn’t stop. He looks up from his book with an unfocused expression, looking past her at first, before recognizing her. His eyes widen and his mouth opens as if to speak but she snaps her gaze away. She walks faster, past the diner’s door, and around the corner. Her bag thumps against her side until she clutches it to her chest. She walks as quickly as she can without running, waiting to hear him call her name. She lets herself into her building, forcing herself to not look back to see if he came after her.

She slams the apartment door shut behind her. She drops her bag by the door, heart still pounding from running up the stairs. She tries to calm herself, gulping down one huge breath after another until she almost feels normal again.

In the kitchen, she opens the fridge without actually wanting anything, then closes it again. She empties the kettle into the sink, refills it. She switches on the radio and turns the volume up, hoping to drown out any thoughts she might have. From the tinny-sounding speaker, the sound of a piano plays and a girl’s voice pleads:

_Maybe, if I pray every night, you'll come back to me_

_And maybe, if I cry every day, you'll come back to stay..._

She sinks to the floor, her back against the sink. The girl goes on singing, _maybe, maybe, maybe_ , and sounds closer to tears with each word. Carol presses her face against her knees until she sees spots, anything to keep herself from seeing his face.

_He came back_ , she thinks, with her head in her hands _. Jesus, why did he have to come back?_


	19. Jim

The last two girls from the secretarial pool put on their coats and hats before they leave. He knows their names are Caroline and Martha but he’s never been sure which is which.

“Have a nice weekend, ladies,” he calls after them. They tell him goodnight and wish him the same, then turn towards each other and giggle. One of them’s a little curvier than the other, and he admires her ass as it slips out of sight.

Once he’s sure he’s the last person there, he takes a key from his pocket and unlocks a janitorial closet. He slips inside then pulls the cord to turn the light on. Beside the mops and brooms hangs a shirt and pair of pants. He quickly changes into them, putting his work clothes on the hangers. He leaves a crisp two-dollar bill for Salvatore. On Monday, he’ll tell Sal _the rent’s in the usual place,_ and give him a wink.

Before he came to this arrangement, he used to go out on Friday nights still wearing the suit he went to work in. Even when he’d stuff his tie in a pocket and loosen his collar, he always felt out of place, conspicuous. But if he wanted to change, he’d have to go all the way home, then turn around and go out again. He thought Carol probably wouldn’t ask why he had to change clothes. Even when he comes home in a state, she doesn’t ask. He wonders if she doesn’t want to know or if she just doesn’t care.

He steps out into the street to hail a cab and pauses. _Maybe I ought to go home_ , he thinks. Carol’s been acting strange for a while now: happy, then sad, then angry, which was something he’d hardly ever saw in her. A week ago, poor old Mrs. Kline ended up at their door again. He took her back to her own apartment, and when he came back, Carol was furious.

“Why can’t that old bag go live with her family instead of bothering us all the time?” she said.

“She’s just an old woman,” he said.

“She’s a goddamn _nuisance_ ,” she said. She returned to washing dishes and he had to turn up the television to cover up the racket she made, pots and pans crashing into the sink.

_And just last week she refused to go to church with me_ , he thinks. She said she was tired, had too much work to do. She showed him a stack of papers, tests or something, which she had to grade by Monday.

“I’m just too busy right now,” she said. “Look, I’ll… go to one of the chapel Masses they do during the week instead, okay?” She sat at her desk and waved him away. He didn’t entirely believe she would go, but that wasn’t the point. It was Sunday. They were supposed to go together.

Standing halfway out into Second Avenue, he watches half a dozen cabs pass him by, all occupied. He gets tired of waiting, decides to walk over to Grand Central and catch a downtown train from there. As he walks, he turns the Carol problem over in in mind.

_She can’t just… not go to church anymore_ , he thinks. Maybe it’s because she stopped spending time with that Father McCoy. She said he went home because of some family thing, but that was months ago. He must have come back by now, so why wasn’t she talking to him? _Maybe they… had a fight?_ he thinks. Carol’s not really the type to argue, though.

Maybe it was some other kind of disagreement. She thinks back to before they were married, that time she’d told him she needed proof to believe in God. _Proof!_ He shakes his head.

_Jesus_ , he thinks, _I hope she didn’t go saying that to a priest._  

At Grand Central, he pauses between two stairways, his last chance to go uptown and head home. He heads for the downtown subway instead.

He counts down the stations in his head as they pass by. He tries not to think too hard about who he might or might not see tonight. That was the funny thing about these parties at Chekov's house; they seemed to just happen, every Friday around this time. People just showed up, bringing booze or instruments or freshly mimeographed poetry. 

He liked it there, probably because no one cared who you were or what you did. He hops off at Spring Street and stops at a liquor store for two bottles of red wine. When he gets to the house, he sits on the stoop outside and lights a cigarette. He checks his watch.

He’s not waiting, not exactly.

From down the street, Jim sees the man approaching and something about the swing of his walk sets a little tendril of heat unfurling in his gut.

“Hey, Hikaru,” Jim says. He savors the way the foreign name feels as he says it.

“Hey, cool it with that,” he says, sitting on the steps. “I told you, it’s just ‘Harold’ now.”

Jim looks him over, then makes a face. “Nah… can’t do it,” he says. “It’s not your name. You should have pride in your real name.”

“Right. Lemme guess, people have a hell of a time pronouncing ‘Jim’ the right way.” Hikaru lights a cigarette of his own then exhales a stream of smoke. He leans back on the stoop. “Seen anyone else go in yet?”

Jim shakes his head. “Just got here. You wanna go in?”

“Sure.” He gets up and dusts himself off.

Jim rings the bell and waits. From above, he hears a window open and takes three steps back from the door. A key and a lead sinker clatter to the ground, attached to a length of fishing line. He picks up the key and unlocks the front door. He gives the line a sharp tug.

“All set,” he calls up to the window and then heads in. When they enterChekov's apartment, they find a girl still reeling in the front door key with a broken fishing pole.

“Pavel around?” Hikaru asks her. She shrugs and goes back to pulling up the line.

The apartment is still relatively empty, so Jim and Hikaru stake their claim on a beaten-up sofa. Someone puts on Thelonious Monk’s _Brilliant Corners_ and the two men drink and smoke and disagree over whether Sonny Rollins or John Coltrane is the better saxophonist. They slowly get drunk but don’t talk about themselves. They never talk about their lives outside of Friday nights. 

In a short time, the room fills with the smell of smoke and perfume. Couples are dancing, pressed close to one another.Chekov wanders past a few times, stopping to say hello before slipping away again. Jim and Hikaru wonder if they’ll ever know how the strange Russian kid ended up in New York.

“I heard… he was in Budapest in ‘56 and that’s when he defected.” Hikaru says, his cheeks red from drinking.

“Why would he have been there, though?” Jim asks. “And, and… where’s his family? D'you think his dad is that old Russian guy who comes in and yells at everyone in here sometimes?” Hikaru starts to giggle and Jim imitates the old man to make him laugh more, shaking his fist and pretending to shout nonsense.

Next to them, a couple squeezes onto the other end of the couch, pushing Jim up against Hikaru. He looks over at the couple, kissing and pawing at each other. He rolls his eyes. 

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s take a walk.”

They wander through the various rooms. Each time they squeeze through a doorway or nudge by a cluster of people, they bump against each other, their shoulders or hands brushing each other for just a second. Jim feels anticipation begin to thrum somewhere deep inside him. He used to seek this kind of thing out elsewhere—on certain street corners or in certain. He always enjoyed the anonymity, but now he thinks he likes the expectation more.

They stop walking and lean up against a wall, side by side, surveying the room. Jim sees Chekov smile at them and he nudges Hikaru with his elbow. A baby-faced girl with crimson lipstick wedges herself in next to Chekov where he sits and he turns his attentions to her. Jim watches Hikaru’s face darken as he turns his back on the scene.

“Hey,” Jim says. “Have you ever… you know, with him?”

“Pavel?” Hikaru sighs. “I don’t really think he’s… that way.”

Jim nods. He’s never asked much about Hikaru but he’s gotten the impression he only likes other men. Jim feels a little sorry for him, being one of _those_.

“So…” Hikaru says. His eyes dart to Jim’s mouth and he unconsciously wets his lips with the tip of his tongue. “Do you wanna… keep walking?”

Jim feels his pulse start to race. “Sure,” he says. “Why not?”

At the end of a long hallway, they find an unlocked room filled with boxes of books, an old-fashioned sewing machine, a rusty bird cage. As soon as Jim closes the door behind them, Hikaru grabs him and kisses him, already needy and whimpering. Jim turns his head away. He walks Hikaru back, pinning him to the door, gripping him by the hips. He pushes in further, nudging Hikaru’s thighs apart with his knee. Each time Jim thrusts his hips, grinding himself against Hikaru, the door rattles and creaks.

“Jesus.” Hikaru sounds breathless already. “N-not here. Come on.”

He grabs Jim by the belt and pulls him to a corner of the room, to a legless sofa resting on the floor. Jim sits, stretching out his legs in front of him. Hikaru kneels in front of him. He leans over and nuzzles against Jim’s crotch. Jim feels his dick go hard just from the heat of the man’s breath through his clothes. He swears under his breath and grips the tattered fabric of the sofa.

Hikaru laughs softly, lifting his head to look at Jim’s face. He grabs Jim by the belt again and yanks him closer to the edge of his seat. He quickly unbuckles the belt and undoes his pants. Jim could swear the sound of his zipper could be heard for blocks, it’s so loud to his ears. He lifts his hips and pushes his pants down to his thighs. Hikaru pulls them down further, below his knees, pushing his thighs apart with his hands. Jim wishes for a moment that everything could be slower, that Hikaru would taunt him, make wait for what he wants and spin the thread of anticipation out longer. But he knows this is just about need and urgency and _now_.

In one swift motion, Hikaru wraps his hand around the base of Jim’s cock and takes the rest into his mouth, his tongue sliding up the length of his shaft. Jim puts his hand on the top of Hikaru’s head, petting his short black hair, slowing his frantic bobbing pace to one that pleases him. Hikaru squirms with impatience and Jim hears another zipper, Hikaru’s this time. Jim leans to one side, watches him fumble with his pants with one hand until his prick is in his hands, stroking hard.

“Slower,” Jim says. Hikaru’s hand on Jim’s cock slows. 

“No,” Jim says. “ _You_. Slower.” Hikaru’s hands find a matching pace. Jim tries to be still and not thrust into Hikaru’s eager, wet mouth but he can feel the muscles at the back of Hikaru’s throat working around the sensitive head of his cock and _fuck, just like that, don’t stop_. He tips his own head back and closes his eyes and wonders if Hikaru will try to relive this later when he’s alone. He pictures him, sprawled in some anonymous bed, fucking his own fist just like he is now, sucking his own fingers, thinking about Jim’s cock, and the idea sends Jim over the edge and he grips Hikaru’s hair as he comes.

Hikaru’s mouth slips off Jim with a wet pop, and he presses his cheek to Jim’s naked thigh, gasping and trembling, still working himself with his other hand. Jim’s eyelids are heavy and he strokes Hikaru’s hair absently, raking his fingers over it like a pet. He barely notices when Hikaru groans louder and then is silent, little huffs of breath on his skin. He nearly nods off, but then there’s a noise. 

Jim’s eyes snap open. Someone is in the room with them, there by the door, a woman with flaming red hair. She raises her finger to her lips and takes a few steps towards them.

“You do know there’s a lock for this door, don’t you?” she asks.

Hikaru lifts his head with a start and hastily does up his pants. “Gaila, Jesus,” he says. “How long have you been there?”

“Long enough,” she says with a smile. She sits next to Jim, folding her legs under her, never taking her eyes off his face. He ignores her as he slips his pants back on. “I was going to ask to join you but I know I’m not your type,” she says to Hikaru. “But what about you?” She leans closer until her breasts press against Jim’s arm.

“It’s Jim,” he says, “And I’m married.”

Gaila looks at Hikaru for an answer but he only shrugs. “So, you only screw boys… and your wife?” 

Jim says nothing as he fastens his belt.

“Well, your loss, sugar,” Gaila says. She gets up to leave and trails a finger down the length of Jim’s arm. She pauses by the door, pointing to a small metal hook and eye on the frame. “Next time, lock yourselves in, boys.”

Jim clears his throat and checks his watch in the dim light. “I should, uh, I should get home,” he says.

“Right,” Hikaru says. “Maybe I’ll… see you around?”

“Yeah, maybe,” Jim says. He pats Hikaru on the knee and tells him _so long_. He makes his way to the door without talking to anyone else but the redhead winks as he passes. Someone’s put on an old Charlie Parker record and he takes his time getting his coat on, just long enough to hear the end of “Autumn in New York” before walking out.

Down on the street, it takes him just a few minutes to catch a cab uptown. He adjust his coat around him and realizes that he smells of sweat and sex. He thinks about how it felt to have someone’s mouth on him, to watch someone get off like that, kneeling at his feet. He knows he ought to feel pleasantly sated right now, exhausted, even—but it’s never been that way for him. Instead, his appetite has been whetted to a keen, bright edge. 

He stares out the window, wondering if Carol will be awake, waiting for him, or she’s already gone to bed. He wishes each time could be like that first time, the way she stuttered and gasped, her eyes wide. As the streets roll past, he starts to think about what he’s going to do when he gets home, how he’ll spread her thighs and wrap her legs around his waist… 

_No_ , he decides. _From behind_. 

His hips will thump against her perfect heart-shaped ass, and he’ll clamp one of her rosy nipples between his thumb and forefinger. He shifts his hardening cock in his pants and leans towards the cabbie, telling him _take Broadway instead, it’ll be faster._

#

On Sunday, he goes to church alone again. He tries to let the Mass wash over him, to wade into the ritual of it and emerge renewed, but his mind keeps wandering back to Carol’s absence. _This has to stop_ , he thinks. _But first things first._

After Mass, he waits his turn for the confessional booth, his stomach churning with the nagging fear that perhaps this will finally be the time he's denied the forgiveness he seeks. He gets on his knees and confesses to everything, admitting to his sins without saying how they were committed. The old priest chastises him, gives him penance, and sends him on his way. Jim leaves the little booth and gets on his knees, filled with gratitude for being forgiven yet again. When his penance is complete, he dusts himself off and goes looking for Father Leonard.

He asks one of the other priests at the church where he can find Father McCoy. The priest checks the back of the church and then suggests he may be back at the rectory. It’s only a few blocks away and as Jim walks there, he tries to decide how to approach the situation.

He rings the doorbell and one of the other priests living there invites him to wait in the foyer. From where Jim stands, he can see a set of stairs leading up. Father Leonard comes halfway down them, and stops short when he sees Jim waiting for him.

“What, uh… what brings you here?” Father McCoy looks around and back over his shoulder.

“Sorry, Father,” Jim says. “Is this a bad time?”

“No, I just, I’m surprised, is all. Let’s... step out here.” He opens the front door and they step out onto the small porch.

“It’s about Carol,” Jim says. 

Father McCoy shuffles his feet, takes a step back, watching Jim’s face. 

“Did something happen between you two?” Jim asks. “I mean… did you have an argument or something?”

“No,” Father McCoy says, slowly. “Nothing like that.”

“I know she mentioned you went away for a bit, but that was ages ago,” Jim says.

“I just got back, about a week ago. I… haven’t spoken to her since then.”

“Well, I think she’s just been out of sorts without you around,” Jim says. 

Father McCoy just stands there, scowling. 

“Anyhow,” Jim continues, “I thought I’d see if you wanted to come by for dinner some night this week.”

Jim smiles at Father McCoy, the smile that’s gotten him what he wanted since he was twelve.

“Oh, I don’t… I don’t know,” Father McCoy says.

“Come on,” Jim says. “You two can catch up and things can get back to the way they were.” He takes a step closer, lets his voice drop. “You know… she hasn’t been to church in weeks now. I’m starting to get a little worried.”

He watches the muscles in Father McCoy’s jaw clench. 

“Okay.” The priest sighs. “Okay, when?”

Jim grins. “Thursday night, around six… that sound good?”

The priest nods. “I’ll be there,” he says.

“Great!” Jim says, offering his hand. Father McCoy looks at Jim’s outstretched hand a moment before taking it. Jim claps him on the shoulder. “I’ll see you then. You should really get back inside, Father—your hands are like ice.” Jim gives him a little wave and bounds down the steps.

On his way home, he stops to see the old man selling flowers on the corner. There’s not as much to choose from now. It’s nearly the end of October and Jim knows the soon the elderly man will disappear, returning again in the spring. He picks up a bouquet of purple sweet peas and their delicate, old-fashioned smell wafts towards him.

“Back again, eh?” The old man laughs.

Jim smiles and shrugs with feigned helplessness.

“What can I say?” he asks. “I guess I just love my wife.”


	20. Leonard

She just _… kept walking._

It had become a sort of refrain in Leonard’s head since it happened. It came to him when things were quiet, when his mind started to drift, as he swept the floors or brushed his teeth. _She just kept walking._

He’d been so glad to be back, snug in his favorite diner booth by the window, but the Louis L’Amour cowboy novel he’d brought wasn’t keeping his interest. His eyes began to drift off the page and to the window. Someone was looking at him. He’d been back in New York two days and he’d thought he’d seen Carol a dozen times. He’d see a woman who walked like her or wore her hair like her and his heart would stop.

And so, when he saw Carol looking at him from the other side of the glass, he didn’t immediately believe it was her.

Now, when he closes his eyes, he can still see her expression, the way her eyes narrowed and her mouth pressed into a thin line. She looked right at him; she had to have known it was him. For a second, he thought she was on her way into the diner, but when she didn’t come through the door, he decided to go after her. He didn’t wait for the check—just left a few bills under his coffee cup, grabbed his coat, and dashed out to find her. He followed the route she must have taken, right up to her door, but never caught sight of her. He thought about ringing her doorbell, even stood there a minute with his finger hovering over the button, but he suddenly realized he had no idea if she would even speak to him.

_And what would I have said to her?_ he thinks now, as he lies in bed. He folds his arm under his head and stares at the ceiling, unable to answer. He’s exhausted, too tired to sleep. Since he came back, he’s been working full tilt all day, every day. No one did the accounts while he was gone so he’s been on the phone, settling bills with the grocer, making sure the electricity wouldn’t be shut off. Felix is at some rectory in the Bronx where they’ve all come down with the Asian flu. Felix already had it last spring, so he’s there to help out. Without him around, there's twice as much kitchen duty for Leonard, peeling vegetables, scrubbing pots, standing over the sink until his back aches.

He rubs his hand over his face. _And then, my God, her husband_ , he thinks. He thought maybe Jim was there to take a swing at him for kissing his wife, even started to brace himself for a sock on the jaw. It wasn’t like he didn’t have it coming. He hadn’t seen Jim or even thought about him for months. He liked it better when the man was just an abstraction, a vague thing that existed unseen—not this affable young man, standing in the rectory foyer. And yet, something about Jim’s concern rang false to him, something in the way he said he just wanted things to get back to the way they were.

_I bet he’s one of those guys who’s always gotten his way,_ he thinks. _Finagling me into coming by for dinner like that._ He knew Jim wasn’t going to back down, so he said yes just to end the discussion. _How often does he do that to people? Does it work every time?_

Leonard closes his eyes and tries to think what it must be like to be Jim: handsome, brimming with charm, working all day with a beautiful wife waiting for him at home. 

_What’s that like?_ he wonders. _Does he ask her about her day?_

He pictures him watching television with Carol, just as he once did, except Jim doesn’t go home when the evening news comes on. He pictures them getting ready for bed, wearing pajamas, turning off the lights. Does Jim sleep up against Carol’s back, he wonders, the two of them nestled together like spoons? Or does he sleep on his back holding her close under his arm, her head resting on his chest? Does he lay his hand over hers and kiss the top of her head? Does he whisper goodnight and think how lucky he is?

_Oh, merciful Jesus,_ he prays _, let him be good to her. Make him understand just how good he has it._

#

Leonard scrapes food off what must be the hundredth plate. Of all the kitchen jobs, he hates washing dishes the most. He picks up the dish rag and already his thoughts begin to drift. _She just kept walking. Looked right at me and just kept walking._

“Looks like you missed a spot,” someone says behind him.

“Felix!” Leonard says, nearly dropping the dish. “Oh, are you a sight for sore eyes. How’ve you been?” He quickly turns off the taps and dries his hands.

“You know me, same as ever,” Felix says. He holds Leonard by the shoulders. “I’m glad to have you back, but I’m so sorry about your mother. She’s in my prayers every night.”

“Thank you,” he says. “And thank you for forwarding my mail while I was away. I really appreciated it.”

“Right,” Felix says. “There’s a few things that didn’t get forwarded to you. They’re up in my room. I’ll put them on your desk.” He smiles a little. “It’s good to have you back.”

Leonard finishes washing the dishes and heads upstairs to his room. On his desk is a small bundle, wrapped in butcher paper and tied with the red-and-white string the bakery uses. _Nothing ever goes to waste in Felix’s kitchen_ , he thinks. He opens the package and finds five or six envelopes. He picks up the and unfolds the letter inside.

_Dear Leonard, I hope your mother is better and that you are well. How is it to be home? Has anyone made you a peach pie yet?_

His eyes quickly skim down the rest of the note and at the bottom, he finds a signature: _Your friend, Carol._

“Oh…” he says aloud. 

He looks at the other envelopes and begins to unseal the remaining letters, pulling out one after another.

_Dear Leonard, It’s Friday again and I went to the Met alone. There’s a Velasquez exhibit going on and I wish you had been here to see it! They have one of my favorite paintings…_

_Dear Leonard, I found a copy of Merton’s Seven Storey Mountain at The Strand. (Have you been there? If not, we should go some time.) I am (slowly!) reading it and…_

_Dear Leonard, I don’t know if you’re getting any of my letters but I hope they’re reaching you._

_Leonard, I still don’t know why you walked out that night and I don’t care. But please, if you’re upset with me, tell me._

_At least let me know you’re not angry with me._

_Leonard, I don’t know what to do... I wish you were here._

_I miss you and I wish you would come home to me._

He feels like the wind’s been knocked out of him. Her last letter is dated almost two months ago. He picks it up and looks at it closer to be sure.

_Wait_ , he thinks _. Two months ago?_

Two months of her thinking that he was angry at her, or thinking that he just didn’t care. He can’t decide which is worse.

He snatches up the note and goes to Felix’s door.

“Why didn’t you send these to me?” Leonard asks.

“Keep your voice down,” Felix hisses. He grabs Leonard’s arm, pulls him into the room and closes the door. “You want everyone to know you’ve got some woman writing you letters?”

“Did you… did you _read_ these?” Leonard asks. “Is that why you didn’t send them?”

“No, I didn’t read your mail! It didn’t exactly take a detective to figure out who they were from, you know. Maybe next time you should tell your girlfriend to be a little less amorous,” he sneers.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says.

“You think I’m an idiot, Walt?” Felix asks. “You go out half-drunk and come home with a… love bite?”

Leonard instinctively puts a hand on his neck.

“Yeah,” Felix says. “That’s just about where it was, genius. Lucky for you, I’m the only who saw you that morning. And then, not two days later, an anonymous letter for Leonard in the mailbox. Well, _gee whiz_ , I wonder who that could be from.”

“You had no right to keep these from me,” Leonard says.

Felix scoffs. “Are you out of your mind? You think nobody here would have asked you about the fact someone was hand-delivering you little notes? D’you think if I had just let her keep writing, someone wouldn’t have put two and two together?”

“What do you mean, if you had let her?” Leonard struggles not to shout.

“What do you think?” Felix says. “I told her to stop writing to you.”

Leonard moves closer but Felix doesn’t back away. “What did you say to her?”

“I wrote her a note saying she needed to stop before you wound up in trouble.” Felix laughs bitterly. “Oh my God, Walt, you should be on your knees, thanking me right now! I _saved_ you.”

Leonard makes for the door, but Felix grabs him by the wrist.

“You better take your goddamned hand off me,” Leonard says. “Or so help me, I will knock you out.”

Felix yanks the door open.

“Get out,” he says. Leonard is barely through the door when Felix slams it shut behind him.

Leonard paces in his small room, the same four steps, back and forth, muttering to himself. “The goddamned _nerve_ of him… who does he think he _is_?” 

But when he sees the letters scattered over his desk, he knows Felix was probably right. It was foolish of her to write to him. She must have known that.If anyone else had realized… he can’t even begin to imagine the trouble they would have had. 

_And yet_ , he thinks, _she still kept writing._

He takes the letters from his desk and lays them out on his bed in order, like a game of solitaire. He reads each letter again, slowly this time. He can hear her voice in his head so clearly, her diction crisp even on the page. He lingers over the last one, letting his eye skip back over phrases to read them again and again.

_I missed you too_ , he thinks. _I came back because I missed you_.

He composes a long reply in his head, apologies and admonishments, but he knows he can never write any of it down. He takes a last look, then puts the letters back into their envelopes and ties them up again in paper and string. He holds the bundle in the palm of his hand, as if he’s weighing it. The right thing to do, he thinks, is to give them back.

He can’t mail it back. He has to be sure the letters don’t end up in anyone else’s hands. He can’t bring them with him to dinner. He’ll have to see her alone, just for a minute, one last time. Somewhere out in the open, he thinks. He tries not to imagine what either of them might say if they were alone, or what they might do.

He’ll hand over her letters and tell her he never received any of them, not until it was too late. Because if he had gotten them, of course he would have written back to her, right away, because…

_No_ , he tells himself. _Keep this simple._ He’ll give back the letters and explain what happened. Then he’ll tell her goodbye. 


	21. Carol

The paring knife slips from her hands and clatters into the sink. She rinses blood from the half-peeled potato and wraps a paper towel around her finger, pressing it hard to get the bleeding to stop. She closes her eyes, trying to stop herself from seething. 

She must have taken her eyes off the sharp little knife for only a second. She'd been picturing herself at dinner tonight, trying to decide the best way to ignore Father McCoy. She grits her teeth and peels the stained paper towel away from her finger. _I should have been paying closer attention,_ she thinks. The cut is long but clean and not too deep. She bandages up her finger, snaps a dishwashing glove on over it and gets back to work.

_Why’d Jim even invite him, anyway?_ she thinks. _Typical. Typical Jim, always inviting people to our home without so much as asking me first._

She checks on the sponge cake layers she already made, now cool enough to be spread with raspberry jam and whipped cream. She thinks about the last time she and Jim had Father McCoy over to dinner, how she’d called bakeries and gone all the way into Harlem to find a peach pie, just to make him feel at home. She scoffs _. I think I’ve done quite enough already to make him feel at home,_ she thinks.

She shakes the last of the powdered sugar onto the cake and sets it in the refrigerator. The potatoes are in the oven, next to the roast, the cake is done… she looks around the kitchen for another thing to check off her list but she’s done as much as she can. She sits at her desk without taking off her apron, uncaps a red pen and starts to correct a stack of quizzes.

Jim comes home, hangs his hat by the door, and stops in his tracks.

“I thought you were making dinner,” he says.

She glances at her watch. “It’s all in the oven for... another three-quarters of an hour,” she says, looking back at her papers. “How was your day?”

“Fine,” he says. “The usual. What happened to your hand?”

She looks at the gauze-wrapped finger a moment. “I cut myself peeling a potato,” she says.

He frowns. “Oh, sweetheart,” he says. “You should really be more careful.”

#

At two minutes to six, the doorbell rings. She takes the roast from the oven as Jim goes downstairs to greet Father McCoy. She runs her hands over her hair, takes off her apron, then checks her lipstick in the reflection from a knife.

She hears the door close. Father McCoy ducks his head into the kitchen.

_He looks the same_ , she thinks.

“Hi,” he says. “This is for you.” He carries an African violet in a little flowerpot, wrapped in pink paper.“I was going to bring flowers,” he says, “but it always seems so sad when they die.”

“Thank you,” she says. She strokes the plant’s furry leaves.

“Say, what happened to your finger?” he asks.

“It’s nothing,” she says. “I cut myself.”

His eyebrows raise. “Are you okay?” he asks gently.

Jim calls out from the living room to ask if either of them would like a drink before dinner.

She makes herself smile. “I’m fine, thank you,” she says.

#

As she sits, Jim asks Father McCoy if he’d do them the honor of saying grace. She folds her hands in her lap and closes her eyes as Father McCoy begins to speak. 

_I miss the sound of your voice_ , she’d written to him.

Before he says _amen_ , she’s furious all over again.

_Why did he have to come back? Why did Jim have to invite him here?_ She hates him, hates them both. She pushes her food around the plate like a child, smashing bits of potato under the tines of her fork.

When Jim mentions she’s started graduate school, they turn to her and it takes her a minute to realize they are speaking to her.

“How is it so far?” Father McCoy asks. “It must be a lot of work.”

“It keeps me out of trouble,” she says. 

The priest’s face goes red.

“Dessert?” she asks brightly. “I’ve made a cake, if anyone’s interested.”

“Ooh, is there ice cream too?” Jim asks.

“Oh. No,” she says. “It’s… not really that sort of cake.”

“Come on now, that’s no fun: cake without ice cream.” Jim looks over at the clock. “I bet I could still make it to the market before they close.”

“No, it… it’s _fine_ , really,” she says, but he’s already reaching for his coat.

“It won’t take that long,” Jim says. “I’ll be back in no time.” He grins and walks out the door before she can protest any further. She hears his footsteps recede down the stairs and then there’s only silence.

She starts to collect the plates and silverware from the table before Father McCoy can speak.

“Let me give you a hand,” he says.

“No, thank you,” she says. “I can manage.” He follows her to the kitchen.

“Please, let me help,” he says, setting the wine glasses next to the sink. “You probably shouldn’t get that bandage wet.”

“I have gloves,” she says. “I’ll be fine.”

He starts to roll up his sleeves. “Honestly, I don’t mind,” he says.

Her hands knot into fists on the edge of the sink. “I don’t… _want your help_ ,” she says. “I don’t even want you to _be here_ right now.”

He stands there for a moment, then delicately slips his hand around her wrist.

“You’ve got every right to be angry with me,” he says. “But please understand… I didn’t even know you’d written until just a couple of days ago. Felix kept all your letters from me.”

She scoffs. “I suppose he’s the one who sent me that note,” she says. “Or did he not tell you about that, either?” She tries to ignore how he picks up her hand, stroking her skin, coaxing her fist to unfurl. 

“No, he told me,” he says. “I’m just so sorry. I would have written… I _should_ have written…” He presses her hand between his own. Her anger is abandoning her and she struggles to hang onto it. 

“I… missed you,” he says. His voice is low and gentle. “I came home because I missed you.” 

She stops herself from wrapping her arms around his waist, burying her face in his chest. She needs to hear _I missed you_ a hundred more times, a thousand.

“Hey, don’t cry,” he says. He squeezes her hand. “I didn’t come all the way back just to make you cry.”

She rubs her eyes with the heel of her hand. Someone passes in the hallway outside the apartment door and for a moment, they freeze. She impulsively picks up his hand and kisses it before letting it go. They stand side-by-side at the sink, unable to look at each other.

He leans towards her and asks, “So… are you going to let me do these dishes or not?”

She laughs. “I didn’t realize men knew how to wash dishes,” she says, sniffling. “I thought it was something only women knew how to do, like diapering a baby.”

“Well, I’m sure I could do that, too,” he says. “I mean… how hard can it really be?”

He turns on the taps and starts to wash. She watches his hands as he works, brisk and efficient. She dries the plates with a towel and stacks them in the cabinet.

“I still have your letters,” he says, over the hiss of running water. “I can give them to you, if you’d like them back.”

She nods. She thought of asking him to burn the letters, but now she’d just do it herself.

“How about tomorrow? At the diner, maybe?” he asks.

“Okay,” she says. “I can meet you there at four.”

When Jim returns with a pint of vanilla ice cream, Carol and Leonard are still washing dishes together in silence.

#

On Friday, every minute seems to drag. She spends her entire morning in the research library. At lunch, she buys a limp tuna sandwich from the cafeteria, and eats it as she crosses the campus. Professor Scott is away at a conference, and she has to conduct a review session for one class, then administer an exam for another. She’s supposed to watch the students for any sign of cheating, but mostly she watches the clock, calculating down to the minute when she’ll see Leonard again.

At the diner, she finds him waiting outside, his hands thrust into his pockets and a scarf around his neck. He smiles a little and looks down as she approaches. He reaches for the door but she looks at the diner full of people and stops him.

“Could we just… walk for a bit?” she asks.

“Sure,” he says. “Let’s walk.”

For a couple of blocks, they talk about how cold it’s gotten and whether it might snow soon. Then they walk another few blocks in silence.

“I really liked your letters,” he says. “Sometimes, you get a letter from someone and it’s all formal and strange, but… your letters, it was like you were right there in the room.”

“I’m sorry you never got any of them,” she says.

“Me too,” he says.

“Was it nice to be back home?”

He nods. “I thought about staying there for good, but I just couldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“It just didn’t fit me anymore,” he says. “You ever had a shirt or something as a kid, and you just loved it so much, you couldn’t stand to get rid of it?”

She nods.

“What was yours?” he asks.

“A white party dress. It flared out around my legs when I spun.”

“Mine was a cowboy shirt with pearl snap buttons.” He smirks. “I loved that shirt but eventually I outgrew it. I think that’s what being home felt like: I still loved it, but now it just felt too small for me.”

“Still, I’m sure it was hard to say goodbye to your mother,” she says.

His pace slows. “No…” he says. “She passed away while I was there.”

She opens and closes her mouth, struggling to think of something, anything, to say, to console him.

“I’m so sorry,” she says at last. She slips her hand into his coat pocket and takes his hand. He just nods and squeezes her hand.

As they walk, they pass a row of darkened windows. She watches their reflection among all the other people passing by.

_Look at that_ , she thinks. _We could be anyone_.

#

As they wait at the corner for a light to change, she realizes they’ve walked more than two dozen blocks.

“As long as we’re here, I’ve something I need to do nearby,” she says. “Would you like to come with me?”

“Of course,” he says.

She steers them towards a shiny high-rise building and reluctantly lets go of his hand to rummage in her bag for a set of keys.

“I need to water Professor Scott’s plants while he’s away,” she says. “Do you want to come up?”

He takes a long look at her, then the door, and then her again.

“Sure,” he says at last.

#

The professor’s apartment is just two rooms, tidy and plain, with houseplants on every windowsill.

“It’ll take me a minute,” she says, pulling off her coat. “Have a seat.”

She checks the list of instructions the professor left for her, detailing what each plant needs. She fills the watering can at the little kitchen sink and takes it from window to window, watering some plants, administering a dropper of fertilizer to others. 

For a moment, she lets herself pretend she lives there, just a single working girl, coquettishly keeping her date waiting. But she catches sight of her wedding band and the illusion vanishes. She pours the remaining water down the drain and returns the watering can to a shelf above the sink.

“I suppose that’s it, then,” she says.

He nods and reaches for his coat but doesn’t get up. From inside his coat, he takes out a bundle tied with string.

“Your letters,” he says. “Before I forget.”

She sits down next to him on the sofa and takes the letters into her lap. “We’re ever going to see each other again, are we?” she asks, plucking at the twine. “Not like this, I mean.”

“Seems like we’d just be asking for trouble if we did,” he says.

She nods. “In that case, can I ask you something? ...Why’d you leave that night? Were you angry?” she says in a small voice.

“No,” he says. “Hey… no, why would I have been angry?”

“Because I, you know… because I threw myself at you, and took advantage of you.” She feels her face growing hot.

He laughs softly. “Hard to see how a little thing like you could take advantage of a grown man like me.” He leans towards her. “And I didn’t exactly object, now did I?”

She tries to keep from smiling. “Well… why then?” she asks.

“I was just… afraid,” he says. “I figured you’d come back through the door and realize you’d made a terrible mistake.”

“No,” she says. “I didn’t. I mean, I wasn’t going to… I went after you, all the way out the street to try and catch up to you.”

She sighs and rests her head against the back of the couch.

“Do you think it was a mistake?” she asks him, looking at the ceiling. The room is so quiet, she can hear the clock on the wall ticking the seconds away. She wishes she could take the question back.

“If you’re asking if I’m sorry it happened,” he says, “the answer’s no.”

She exhales. 

After a few moments, he says, “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course. Anything.”

“Why, um…” He clears his throat a little. “Why me?” he asks.

She takes a moment to gather her thoughts.

“Because… you’re you,” she says with a shrug. “I think it’s the way you listen to me, I mean, really listen.”

He fiddles with the white tab in his collar. “Just part of my job, I guess,” he says.

“No, don’t say that.” She takes his hand, holding it tight. “It’s not that. It’s you; it’s who you are. You listen and you’re thoughtful and understanding and… sweet. I like spending time with you.” She looks down at their entwined hands. “I like being with you.”

She studies his profile, and he slowly turns to face her. He leans in and kisses her, tentatively, softly. He slips his arm around her and she nestles in, lets herself be held. A quietness seeps into her, like surrendering to sleep after a long day. She rests her head on his shoulder and closes her eyes. He presses his nose against her hair, the soft huff of his breath warm on her scalp.

“Do you remember the first time I saw you?” he asks.

“That day it rained and I found the cat?”

“Before that,” he says. “The day you showed up in my confessional.”

“I almost left because I was expecting someone much older,” she says. “But I liked the sound of your voice.”

“I liked the perfume you wear,” he says. He takes her hand, nuzzles the soft underside of her wrist before kissing it. “It smells like home to me.”

_I’m sorry_ , she wants to say.

“There was still so much of the city I wanted to show you,” she says.

“Oh, yeah?” he says. “Like what?” He brushes his knuckles against her cheek.

She shrugs. “Lots of places. Museums. Coney Island.”

He tips her chin up and she leans into his kiss. He runs his thumb along her jaw, down her neck. He rests his forehead against hers, his eyes closed.

“Promise you won’t forget about me,” he says, almost too quietly to hear.

She pulls back slightly, waiting for him to open his eyes, to look at her.

“Never,” she says. “I promise.” She kisses his mouth, his cheek, his neck, saying _I promise_ against his skin.

As they kiss, his hands glide down her back and over her legs. He hooks his fingers behind her knee, tugging her towards him gently, and she realizes he is urging her back into his lap. She plants a knee on either side of him, alighting on his thighs. His breath is ragged in her ear.

“I thought of you so often, just like this,” he says, looking his hands on her waist. She runs her fingers through his dark hair and down his neck, touching his collar lightly. He gently brushes her hands aside and unfastens the clerical tab, unbuttoning the collar of his shirt. He places the white strip on a small table next to the couch. She looks at it a moment, then pulls off her wedding band, setting it down on the table as well. He takes her bare hand and rubs away the indentation the ring left on her skin.

“Much better,” he says. He kisses the center of her palm and lays her hand on his cheek.

She undoes the next two buttons on his shirt, revealing a white undershirt with a soft thatch of chest hair spreading out from underneath. She leans down and kisses his chest, the fine hair tickling her nose. He squirms under her, his fingers digging into her hips.

As she straightens up, he looks up into her face. His eyes are wide, his lips parted with anticipation. Her self-consciousness flares up but then completely burns away. She knows now why older men seek out younger girls, the pleasure of bestowing experience upon someone innocent. She feels… _significant_.

She watches his face as she slowly begins unbuttoning her dress. He stares at her hands, spellbound for a moment, before reaching out to unfasten the buttons himself. He fumbles with the clasp of her thin belt and she caresses his hands, calming them. She undoes the belt herself and allows him to go on until each button is undone, all the way down to the hem.

He opens her dress slowly, like parting a curtain. He reaches up and pushes it off her shoulders and down her arms, and it falls to the floor behind her. She takes a deep breath and pulls her nylon slip up, over her head, dropping it next to her dress, leaving her in only her underwear. He looks at her in the same way he looked at the cathedral, surprise and awe written on his face.

His hands roam over every inch of bare skin that he can reach: her back, her stomach, the tops of her thighs above her stockings. She quickly unbuttons the rest of his shirt, tugging the fabric up and slipping her hands underneath. He gasps against her mouth, his stomach muscles twitching under her hands.

“Are my hands cold?” she asks.

“N-no,” he says breathlessly. “It’s not that.”

“Good,” she says, nipping at his bottom lip. She thrusts her hands up under his shirt again, relishing the feel of his broad chest under her palms.

He tugs one strap of her bra down and brushes his lips against her breast. She shrugs free of the dangling strap and watches him peel the lacy fabric down until the pink arc of her nipple peeps out from underneath. She hums appreciatively as his hands and mouth roam over her breasts, and strokes his dark hair.

She moves in close, nudging her hips against his. She lets her fingers rest on his belt for a moment, as if he were a wild thing that might bolt away. She twiddles with the button on his pants, taking a moment to watch his face. When he gives her an almost imperceptible nod, she undoes his pants and feels her way in under his clothes. His cock twitches under her hand when she finds it. She gives it a gentle squeeze and he whimpers, his body tense. She slides her hands under the waistband of his shorts and urges him upward. She pushes his pants to his knees, before settling into his lap again.

Her eyes steal down the length of his body. She summons the nerve to look at his nakedness, knowing she’ll never have the opportunity again. His cock is flushed and thick, tall against his belly, emerging from a thicket of dark hair. She rubs her thumb over the warm, silken skin, from the tip to its base and back again.

_It’s… strangely beautiful_ , she thinks.

She quietly asks him, “So, when was the last time…?”

She expects he’ll answer _never_ , but instead he says, “Years. Years and years ago. Once when I was sixteen. And it was…” He laughs nervously. “Not anything like this.” 

Her stomach twists at the thought of someone else in his lap, even once, even years ago. _You’re mine now,_ she thinks. _Mine._

She slips her hand around his cock, stroking it, as she whispers in his ear. “You mean… it wasn’t like this?” 

“ _God, no_ ,” he groans. “Nothing… nothing like that.” When his eyes flutter shut, she smiles at her own shamelessness. 

His fingers brush between her legs and she whimpers. He seems to grow bolder, stroking her, while she rocks against his hand, increasingly desperate for more. With one hand, he tugs aside the silky underwear, using just a fingertip to trace her slick folds. He slides his finger into her and her gasp echoes in the small room. He pushes into her slowly, cautiously, and she feels herself shaking, clenching around him, until suddenly she’s unable to bear it any longer. She needs it, needs him inside her, now, right now. 

She shakes free from his grasp and guides his cock towards her. She touches the head of it to her slippery cunt, dragging it against the slick, sensitive skin. He presses his lips together, quivering under her. She wants to go on taunting him like this forever but her fervor is too great. She sinks down onto him, inching her way, feeling his cock stretching her open, until he’s buried in her to the hilt. She wraps her arms around his neck and shivers. He tenses up, looking at her with an expression she can’t quite comprehend. She nudges her nose against his ear.

“You… feel so good to me,” she breathes.

He moans softly and she seeks out his mouth to kiss him. She starts to roll against him, and the way he fills her threatens to overwhelm her. His hands are on her hips, setting her pace, urging her faster, and she knows she should slow him down, that they should be careful, but each time she rocks against him, it’s like a bright spark from a flint. All she understands is that each thrust is moving her closer to something. She clutches his shoulders and closes her eyes, giving herself over to the something scintillating inside her, spreading out over her skin and engulfing her senses. She hears her own voice layered over his, little carnal gasps and cries coming from them both, and she no longer cares because her entire body is singing out a refrain: _it’s so good, it’s so good, it’s so good._

He breathes her name in her ear, then bucks and trembles under her before stilling. She clings to him, waiting to catch her breath. She doesn’t know if she can look him in the eye, but she peeks up at him anyway.

His eyes are closed, his cheeks flushed pink. He opens one eye to look at her, then closes it again, smiling the first real smile she’s seen from him. She runs her fingertip over his mouth, from one corner to the other.

“Hi,” he says, looking at her at last.

“Hi, yourself,” she says, and kisses him.

She nods towards the empty length of the couch.

“Come on, over here,” she says. “Just for a minute.”

She climbs off his lap and stretches out, looking away as he hitches his pants back up. He lies beside her, nose to nose, his body pressed to hers. His fingertips trace the curve of her ear and the hollow of her cheekbones. She tells herself that no matter what happens, she’s not going to cry in front of him. Not tonight.

Instead, she focuses on little things, like the shaving nick on his throat and the weight of his thigh between hers. She wonders whether they could get up, right now, and just run away together. 

_But where would we even go?_ she thinks. _And how would we get there? What would we do after that?_ She sighs.

“Something on your mind?” he asks.

“I wish I had met you first,” she whispers.

He pulls her close, tucking her head under his chin, squeezing her almost too tightly. He draws a shaky breath and kisses the crown of her head.

She hides her face against his soft cotton undershirt, inhaling the warm smell of his skin. She knows she’ll go home and slip right back into her married life. _But what will he do?_ she wonders. _What’s there for him?_ She feels his heart beating in his chest, steady and strong, and she thinks, _please God, don’t let him be lonely after I’m gone. Let him be happy. I want him to be happy._

The warmth of his body makes her drowsy. She yearns to fall asleep just like this, and wake up somewhere else, as someone else.

He shifts, edging away. He lifts her chin to look at her.

“We should go,” he says and kisses her one last time.

They untangle their limbs from each other. She snatches her slip from the floor and quickly pulls it on to hide herself, all her recklessness gone. He holds her dress up like a coat, and she shyly slips into it. With her back to him, she buttons her dress as fast as she can. When she’s finished, he brushes a speck of dust from her shoulder.

“There,” he says. “You’re perfect.” She can't believe she feels herself blushing.

She picks up the bundle of letters and tucks them into her purse. He refastens the white clerical tab in his collar, then picks up her wedding ring. He offers it to her in his outstretched palm. She looks at it a moment before taking it back and unceremoniously pushing it back on.

He helps her into her coat before putting on his own. She takes a last look around Professor Scott’s apartment before they leave. Then she locks the door behind them.

It’s colder outside now, and an icy wind cuts in through the seams of her coat. She winces and pulls her coat tighter. He puts an arm around her, rubbing her arm briskly to warm her.

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s get you home.”

At 96th Street, they walk down the stairs into the subway. She fishes around in her coat pockets for a token, and when she turns to look at him, his face is somber. He takes her hand and leads her aside a few steps away, out of the flow of people.

_He’s not coming with me_ , she thinks.

“I, uh, I think I’m just going to walk home from here,” he says.

She nods and touches his scarf, clenching it in her fist for a second before releasing it.

“Sounds like the train’s coming,” he says. “You’d better go.”

He leans down until their heads are almost touching. Then he brushes her hair away from her face and kisses her fervently on the forehead.

“I’ll miss you,” he tells her. “Be good, darlin’.”

She nods and walks away in a daze, mechanically dropping her token in the slot and pushing her way through the turnstile.

Before the train pulls to a stop at the platform, she turns around, suddenly remembering a dozen things she needs to tell him. But when she looks back, he’s already gone.


	22. Leonard

At the top of the subway stairs, he takes a moment to get his bearings.

The sign at the next corner reads W. 97th St. so he walks that way, back uptown. As he starts up Broadway, he’s torn between walking faster to get out of the cold or walking slower to be alone with his thoughts. Tomorrow, he’ll be _Father McCoy_ again, but for now he wants to be just _Leonard_ for a little while longer.

He considers the confession he’ll make first thing in the morning, and begins to pray for forgiveness as he walks: _Oh my God_ , _I am heartily sorry for having offended You…_ But when he reflects on his sins, all his thoughts trail away, back to Carol. 

He regrets not having the courage to completely undress her, to undress them both. He wished he had peeled the stockings from her legs and kissed her thighs, her knees, her hips. He could have felt his naked chest against her back, or the soft skin of her belly pressed to his. He should have stayed longer, made love to her again, kissed her more, more often, more deeply, just more.

But he knows, even if he had, he’d still be here on the street, walking home alone. He thrusts his hands into his pockets, already missing the way she slipped her hand into his to console him. 

_How did she know what I needed?_ he thinks. He marvels at the way she never hesitated, how unafraid she was to touch him. Each time he leaned in to kiss her, his heart would hammer in his chest, always worried she’d turn him away. 

_And now she’s gone_ , he thinks. _For me, anyway_.

He wonders what it will be like to see her again, whether he’ll be able to look her in the eye. He tries to picture them both at some church function, as if he could so much as shake hands with her without everything they did telegraphed across his face.

_What do I do now?_ _Tell me, Lord, what am I supposed to do now?_

He could always ask to be transferred to another church, somewhere downtown, maybe. Perhaps he could get away and then, after a few years, he would rekindle his friendship with her, and just talk to her again the way he used to. Maybe at some point down the line, he could even christen one of her children. He smiles, imagining her looking at him, standing by the baptismal font, while holding some pink-cheeked infant. But in his mind’s eye, he sees Jim standing on the other side of her and resentment surges through him like acid. 

_Lust, and now envy_ , he thinks. _Throw in one more and I’ll hit the deadly sins trifecta._

He knows he’s not the first priest to break his vow of celibacy, not even the first he knew of within his own rectory. He also knows he could simply… _not_ confess, and he wouldn’t be the first to do that, either. But that would be the bigger sin, one that would have made his mother utterly ashamed. _If you haven’t got your good name, Len, you haven’t got anything_ , she used to tell him.

No, tomorrow he would set it all to rights, ask for forgiveness, and rededicate himself to a life of chastity.

He shivers in the wind, drawing his scarf up closer to his face. As he does, his hand brushes against his nose. The smell of her still clings to his fingers, sharp and salty, like the tang of sea air. For a second, he wonders what it would tasted like to kiss her there and his knees nearly buckle under him.

How was he ever going to forget how it felt to press into her, how she sank onto him so slowly, trembling. He’d thought for sure he was hurting her in some way but then she’d whispered in his ear and said how _good_ it felt, how good _he_ felt.

_Jesus_.

He yanks his scarf off, suddenly hot and choking. He thinks of how impressed some of the other seminary students had been when he told them, yes, he had been with a girl, and yet he was still able to make his clerical vows. He never dreamed that he’d given up something like tonight.

_My God_ , he thinks. _Is it… always like that? Every time?_

He shakes his head. It couldn’t be. He feels nearly unhinged from just one night, from just an hour or so, really. He tries to imagine a string of nights like this, stretching out for years.

_Maybe you just… somehow grow accustomed to it_ , he thinks.

He walks past the rectory and around the block, allowing himself to wonder a little while longer how anyone could ever get used to what he’d felt tonight.

#

_Just begin at the beginning_ , his grandmother would say to him _. Tell it all the way through, and when you get to the end, stop._

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” he says. “It has been a week since my last confession. I confess to Almighty God the following sins…”

_Begin at the beginning_ , he thinks.

“I broke my priestly vow of chastity,” he says. 

After a pause, Father Lawrence clears his throat and says, “Go on.”

“I… committed adultery. Once. Last night.”

“I see,” Father Lawrence says. “You fornicated with this woman?”

Leonard cringes. “Yes, Father,” he says. “I-I did.”

“A parishioner?”

"Yes,” he says, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Married?”

Leonard can only nod and quietly _mmm-hmm_.

“Speak up, son,” Father Lawrence says.

“Yes, Father, she’s married.” Leonard face stings with shame.

“Well,” Father Lawrence says, “this is very serious, son, very serious indeed.”

Leonard hears a long exhalation of breath.

“Are you in love with this girl?” Father Lawrence asks quietly.

The question hangs in the air, waiting for an answer.

Leonard thinks about her soft hands on his face when she told him everything would be okay. He thinks about the little lines that form between her eyebrows when she’s deep in thought and how they vanish when she laughs. He thinks about the way he felt every time he saw her coming down the stairs to meet him.

“Yes,” he says. “I mean… yes, I think I am, yes.”

“Oh, son… I’m so sorry to hear that,” Father Lawrence says, and he sounds just as he did when Leonard told him his mother had died.

“This won’t be an easy road for you,” he continues. “But, in time, you’ll put this all behind you and you’ll see more clearly the error of your ways. Now, as for your penance… to begin with, I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that you can never see this woman again. No contact whatsoever.”

Leonard can only nod.

“From now on, when you find your thoughts straying to her, you must stop yourself immediately and ask the Lord for forgiveness. Ask him in his infinite mercy to take the weight of this sin from your heart. I’d also like you to reflect on why we take the vows,” Father Lawrence says. “Our sacrifice is meant to bring us closer to Christ’s own. And when we truly embrace celibacy, it frees us to love everyone equally as Christ loves all of us. Think about that.”

“I will, Father,” Leonard says.

“This will all pass,” Father Lawrence says. “You’ll see. Come now, let us pray.”

Leonard mumbles his way through the Act of Contrition. The prayer used to be a balm to him, joyful in its solace, but now it only serves to numb his mind.

After Father Lawrence tells him to go in peace, Leonard slips into a pew and draws a rosary from his pocket. He gets on his knees, but instead of bowing his head, he looks up at the crucifix behind the altar. Christ’s limbs are long and lean, and his head is bowed rather than looking up to God. He tries submerge himself in thoughts of Christ’s suffering but, in his head, he hears Father Lawrence asking _are you in love with this girl?_ He wonders why he’d never once asked himself the same question.

#

As November rolls in, all of New York turns gray and tired, and Leonard feels the same. He took Father Lawrence’s admonitions to heart: every time Carol came to mind, he stopped himself and prayed for forgiveness. His fingers ached from clamping down on the wooden rosary beads. He never realized how often he thought of her. He’d read something in the papers and want to ask her about something. She was probably the smartest person he’d ever known, and yet she never once made him feel foolish for not knowing something. 

One afternoon, he went into the church basement and heard something squeaking. There, in a box of Nativity costumes, was the cat she’d found, surrounded by a litter of her babies. It was all he could do not to run to the phone to let her know.

It took weeks to stop wanting to talk to her. But even after he thought he’d broken free, she’d crack into his consciousness, dazzling him like the burst of a flashbulb, a _pop!_ of her unbuckling his belt, of her running up the stairs in the library, of her saying _I wish I had met you first_. He flinches each time.

#

Each morning, he gets on his knees and prays, _please, Lord, just help me get through another day_. After breakfast, he goes to see Father Lawrence in the confessional, tells him how hard it still is, how he struggles to push her out of his mind. _It’ll get better, son_ , Lawrence tells him, but Leonard finds it harder and harder to believe. When he sits down in the rectory office to work, everything takes twice as long, because he has to stop and pray so often. _Forgive me, Lord. Take this sin from me that I may finally be free._

But the nights are the hardest for him. After dinner, he sits in the parlor, reading or listening to the radio until everyone else says goodnight and drifts upstairs to bed. In his room, he lies awake for hours. He knows that if he let himself, he could still feel her nestling against him, could still hear her saying his name. Instead, he folds his hands on his chest and stares at the ceiling, willing himself to sleep. _Please, God,_ he prays. _Free me from these thoughts. Please, grant me a night free from any dreams_.

Sometimes, when sleep still won’t come, he curls up on his side, folds his arm under his head, and holds the pillow against his chest. He never lets himself pretend it’s her, but just the closeness of something is enough to send him to sleep.

#

“You’re up early,” Felix says one morning.

Leonard nods without taking his eyes off the coffee percolator. He sits on a kitchen stool, watching the coffee boil up beneath the glass knob waiting for it to stop.

“Are you the one who’s been making the coffee lately?” Felix asks. “It’s been better than usual.”

“Yeah,” he says. “I guess.” He’s too exhausted to be angry at Felix anymore.

He hears Felix opening and closing cupboards and drawers, gathering coffee cups and teaspoons. 

“I, uh, I been thinking,” Felix says. Leonard feels him hovering behind him and after a moment, he feels Felix’s hand rest on the top of his head, like he’s a little kid.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have kept those letters from you,” Felix says softly. “I’m sorry, Len.”

Leonard drops his chin and pinches the bridge of his nose until he can compose himself.

“No, you probably did the right thing,” he says. “Anyway, it’s no matter now.”

Felix runs a hand over Leonard’s hair, smoothing it down, before he pulls away.

“Looks like the coffee’s done,” he says. “Let’s get some into you before you drop.”

He pours two cups, one with sugar for himself and one with cream for Leonard. They sit at the table and stare into their cups.

“Package come for you yesterday,” Felix says. “D’you get it?”

Leonard looks up. “No, no one said anything to me.”

“Over by the telephone, in the hallway,” Felix says.

Leonard’s stomach flips when he thinks it might be from Carol, but he recognizes Ruth’s looping script the instant he picks up the small box. He brings it back to the kitchen table. Felix wordlessly offers his pocketknife and Leonard neatly cuts the package open.

“Looks like some letters and photos,” Leonard says, rifling through the box. “Guess I’ll sort through it later.” He downs the rest of the coffee and takes the cup to the sink.

“Just go ahead and leave it,” Felix says. “I’ll wash it.”

Leonard nods. “Thanks,” he says, taking Ruth’s package under his arm. 

“See you later?” Felix asks.

“Yeah,” Leonard says. “I’ll see you later.”

#

After dinner that night, Leonard heads upstairs to fetch a book to read. He was pretty sure Felix made shepherd’s pie just for him, knowing it was one of his favorites. He wonders if they will ever be as close as they were, but at least it will be nice to have someone to play backgammon with again.

He looks around his room for his book and sees Ruth’s parcel on his desk where he’d left it that morning. Inside is an envelope addressed to him, containing a letter and a postal money order. He reads the letter:

_Dear Father Len,_

_I have rented the house to a nice family (with four girls and another baby on the way!) The husband is a friend of Dr. Marcus. Enclosed is the first month’s rent I collected from them. Hope this doesn’t affect your vow of poverty. (I’m only kidding.)_

_Before I rented out the house, I took out anything personal out and put it away for safekeeping. Enclosed are some of the letters and photos I found and thought you might like to have._

_I hope you are well and you aren’t missing your mother too badly. As for me, I am well but I sure do miss seeing you around._

_With much love, your cousin Ruth._

_P.S. I have still not yet been to the bank to close your mother’s accounts but I will let you know when I do. XOXO_

He looks at the money order: two hundred and fifty dollars, almost as much as his monthly pay. He whistles softly. He tucks it into his wallet then looks into the box. At the top, he finds a blue ribbon and a framed certificate, announcing he’d won first place in the county science fair in 1946. He sets it aside and shakes his head, wondering why Ruth thought he’d want that now. The rest seems to be old photos. He takes a handful from the box.

He recognizes a few faces, but finds many more that he doesn’t. He turns the pictures over. His mother marked nearly every print with names or dates, and the sight of her meticulous penmanship makes him feel a little bereft. He continues to poke through the box half-heartedly until he sees his own face. He looks at the snapshot for a moment before he realizes it’s his father, not him. 

On the back, his mother’s inscription reads: _Thomas and baby Len, Myrtle Beach_. He digs through the box and finds others like it. They seem to have been taken one after another: Thomas looking into the distance, next to baby Len on a blanket; Thomas with baby Len on his lap, pointing towards the camera; baby Len laughing while Thomas kisses him.

Leonard knows he’s the fat-faced infant wearing a sunsuit and floppy hat. But the resemblance to his father is like seeing another version of himself, another life he doesn’t remember having, one with a wife and children. 

_I’ll never be a father_ , he thinks. _Not a real one_.

All he remembered, all he ever saw growing up, was his own mother, alone and struggling, and he gladly chose not to have a life like hers. A childless life never seemed like a genuine loss before but suddenly it staggers him.

He looks again at the snapshot of his father kissing him, the joy evident in his face. His father’s eyes crinkle at the corners and his nose—just the same as Leonard’s own—is half-hidden in Leonard’s pudgy baby neck. He props this photo by his bedside lamp and puts the rest away.

When he entered seminary school, he believed his virtuous sacrifice elevated him, let him look down benevolently upon everyone else. A life of importance lay ahead of him, of having been chosen for a greater purpose. Now, he thinks of the other men in the rectory. He wonders if any of them understand what they gave up, if they ever ask themselves what they lost.

He picks up his book from the bedside table and goes downstairs to join them.


	23. Carol

She looks over her shoulder again before pulling the book from the library shelf. She slips it into the middle of a pile of other books in the crook of her arm and leaves the stacks. Most of the books are decoys, picked up to hide the two she needs. She climbs the stairs to the top floor of the science and medicine library, knowing it should be the emptiest. She finds a row of empty study carrels, sets the books down and pulls her chair in close. 

From under a veterinary textbook, she extracts _Kinsey’s Sexual Behavior in the Human Female_ and opens to the index at the back. She reminds herself she’s not a child looking up dirty words in the dictionary, but she still keeps half the book covered with her arm. She turns to page 373, forcing herself to read the text there without letting her eyes shy away from the words:  OCCURRENCE OF ORGASM IN THE FEMALE .

_I mean, I’m pretty sure that’s what happened_. She thinks back again to that night with Leonard, trying to clinically examine what took place, and determine whether she could reproduce the results. She’s already tried in the past few weeks at home with Jim, and the experience hadn’t been the same.

A few nights after she’d been with Leonard, she rested her head on Jim’s shoulder as they sat watching television. She brushed her lips against his neck until he turned his attention to her. He was quick to respond, deftly unhooking her garters before she wriggled free from her underwear. He leaned toward her, angling to get her on her back, but she pushed back, keeping him upright. She undid his pants and climbed astride his lap. She closed her eyes and tried to direct her thoughts, to remember how it had been. But he was thrusting under her in such a way that his bones were digging into her thighs and her breasts were bouncing, and the television behind her was still blaring.

She could feel something starting to happen but it was like trying to start a fire with damp kindling, a spark that wouldn’t catch. She clenched her jaw and tried harder. It was so _near_ , so _close_ to being the same. She went so far as to try picturing Leonard in her head, but Jim’s aftershave smelled different and the noises Jim made were different. So she gave up. She grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him down on top of her, blinking away tears. She laid there and absently stroked his back until he shuddered and was still. He hummed blissfully against her neck before kissing her.

“What’s got into you?” he asked, grinning. But she could only shrug and smile back.

She tried again after that. One time, she’d closed her eyes and focused on every sound and sensation. She made herself relax under the gentle weight of Jim’s body on hers but she fell into a sort of blissful torpor and nearly dozed off. Another night, she’d tried responding to him voraciously, making breathy little noises in the back of her throat. It felt like play-acting, but she thought imitation would get her closer to the real thing. When she dragged her nails across his skin a little too hard, he yelped in pain and she was mortified.

Eventually, she stopped trying.

Lately, whenever Jim reached out across their bed for her, she wordlessly obliged. Her body accommodated him while her mind roamed free. It was pleasant, but it wasn't what it felt like with Leonard, none of the feeling of something resounding, amplified inside her, until she felt her entire being was humming, vibrating like a struck piano chord.

At the top of the next page, she thinks she’s found what she’s looking for. She traces her finger along the line as she reads it over again _: the specific data show that the average female is no slower in response than the average male when she is sufficiently stimulated and she is not inhibited in her activity._

She has already formulated and dismissed a dozen theories of why being with Leonard had amazed her, compared to everything she’d known before. If it was just the position they’d been in, she should have at least come close to reproducing the effect. She was fastidious about using her contraceptive diaphragm with Jim, but the few times she went without it didn’t result in anything extraordinary. Her face reddened when she thought about it, but if she was honest, she knew Leonard was, well, slightly bigger. But she thought Jim’s greater experience should have compensated for that. She remembers how Leonard’s hands faltered as he undressed her and his nervous laugh.

_It can’t just be him_. _It can't,_ she thinks. _I married Jim and that’s who I’ll be with forever from now on. But I just… I can’t go the rest of my life not feeling that way ever again._

She closes her eyes and rubs her temples. After a moment, she looks at the book again. She holds her place with one hand, and takes a notebook from her purse with the other. She jots down _sufficiently_ _stimulated_ and _not_ _inhibited_. She look at it again and underlines the word _not_.

_There_ , she thinks. _That’s all it really was_. She idly sketches a box around the two short phrases. She can just reproduce those conditions… and that’s that. But Jim’s touch didn’t linger on her skin for hours or days afterward. He doesn’t look at her with a kind of reverence. He didn’t make her feel both exalted and wanton.

She folds her arms on the desk and lays her head down. She tells herself she’ll only rest her eyes for a minute but as soon as they close, she thinks about Leonard. It’s become a habit of late, whenever her mind is quiet.

This time, she thinks back to the moment he put his arm around her, and she imagines herself lingering there. She talks to him while tracing his knuckles with her fingers. She tells him she’s the only woman in all her graduate classes now, that the girl with the mousy hair just disappeared.She says how tired she is, how she still needs to go to the market and make dinner and then grade a bunch of student papers after that. He kisses her head and tells her it will all be okay.

Sometimes she envisions herself sleeping with him: on the couch again or lolling in bed on a Saturday morning or even in the shower together, although she’d never done such a thing before. Mostly, though, she just pretends to sit and talk to him, telling him about her day or something she saw that reminded her of him. She knows it’s absurd, being a grown woman with an imaginary friend. Sometimes she even tells him _I know you’re not real_ , but he just looks at her and says _, it’s okay, honey, I know._

She lifts her head and stretches her arms overhead. She closes the Kinsey report and puts it at the bottom of the stack. She pulls the second book from the stack and runs her finger over the embossed title:  COMBINED TEXTBOOK OF OBSTETRICS AND GYNAECOLOGY FOR STUDENTS AND PRACTITIONERS .

She blows a long breath out and then opens to the index.

#

After she gets home from the market, she puts the groceries away and then sits down by the telephone. It’s still early, plenty of time to call Christine and talk before either of their husbands arrive home. But at the same time, she just saw Jo a few days ago, at Janice’s house for Thanksgiving.

Carol didn’t entirely understand all the fuss over Thanksgiving. There were no gifts, no fireworks, no costumes; you sat around and ate all day, and then complained of having eaten too much. She’d tried making a traditional Thanksgiving dinner for Jim the first year they were married, but the frozen turkey had never quite thawed. The outside burned, the inside stayed almost raw, and she’d cried into Jim’s shoulder while he tried to keep from laughing. They went out to dinner that night, and the Thanksgiving after that.

When she told him about Janice’s invitation to spend Thanksgiving at her house, she was surprised that he actually wanted to make the trek out there. But, more than that, she felt slighted. Spending Thanksgiving out in some fancy hotel they could only barely afford had become their own tradition, one they’d forged on their own. But Jim had insisted this was the _real_ way to spend the holiday, with a house filled with people and food.

So, on Thanksgiving morning, she found herself clutching a cherry pie in her lap, on a seemingly endless train ride into the middle of Long Island nowhere. At least Christine was there waiting for them at the train station when they arrived. Carol sat wedged between Christine at the wheel and Jim on the other side. The three of them talked and laughed and Carol was a little disappointed when they arrived at Janice’s house and had to go in.

Jim disappeared into a smoky room with the other men, who were drinking beer and occasionally exclaiming over some football match. Once he was out of sight, Christine tossed their coats onto Janice’s bed and took Carol aside.

“I didn’t want to ask in front of Jim,” Christine said, “but are you feeling all right?”

“Yes, of course,” Carol said. “I’m just… exhausted, I suppose. Grad school is so much more work than I expected.”

Jo narrowed her eyes and nodded. “Come on, let’s go say hello to Janice.”

She led the way to the kitchen where all the women milled around while children ran in and out. Carol said hello and Janice introduced a host of female relatives. It was hot and crowded and everyone seemed to know each other. Gene Junior clung to Christine’s legs and Carol felt like doing the same.

“Oh, Carol,” Christine said. “You haven’t even seen the baby yet, have you?” All the women in the room all turned to Carol, who shamefacedly admitted she had yet to have the pleasure of meeting baby Tammy.

Janice slid a dish into the oven and checked the clock. “She’s probably ready to be woken up from her nap, if you want to go and get her,” she said. “It’s the door at the end of the hall.”

Carol nodded and smiled and eagerly stepped out of the room, although she dreaded the idea of waking the baby up. The last thing she wanted was to ferry a wailing baby back to the kitchen to her mother.

She opened the nursery door slowly and crept inside. As she drew closer to the crib, she heard a noise, alternately bubbling and razzing. Tammy, she realized, was already awake. Carol leaned over the crib and peered at her, still not entirely willing to pick her up. But the baby turned her bright little eyes to Carol and squealed, kicking her chubby legs. She had never heard anything quite like it and when the baby did it again, Carol found herself smiling.

“Hi,” she said quietly. “Look at you… my goodness, what a frock you’ve got on.” The tiny dress was smocked and ruffled like a pink meringue. She ran a hand over the baby's round belly before reaching down and picking her up.

“Would you like to see your mummy?” she asked. She swayed gently back and forth with the baby on her hip like a pendulum. “Shall we go and see her?” 

Tammy chewed on her dimpled hand a moment and Carol watched as the baby experimentally prodded at her dress. When her finger pressed on one of Carol's dress buttons, Carol made a noise: _boop!_

The baby looked from the button to Carol's face and then broke out in a grin, revealing two white teeth just peeping out from pink gums. She repeated her experiment and Carol felt ridiculous about making stupid noises, but the baby laughed, a genuinely delighted little laugh, and so Carol did, too.

She held the baby’s foot in her hand, felt the pea-sized toes wiggle and flex beneath the cotton tights. All the babies she’d ever held had been like Christine’s son Gene, colicky and grizzling. But baby Tammy was a fine little thing, alternately gnawing on her fat fingers before taking them from her mouth to address them with a string of nonsensical sounds. Carol leaned in to smell Tammy’s downy head—baby powder with an undercurrent of soured milk—and she inhaled deeply.

“You’re not so bad,” she said softly. “I could get used to something like you.”

When she returned to the kitchen, all the women exclaimed over baby Tammy in her flouncy pink dress. Janice took her out of Carol’s hands, covered the baby’s cheeks with noisy kisses, then handed her off to another relative.

“There’s wine and cups over on the counter,” Janice said. “Help yourself.”

Carol poured red wine from the straw-covered bottle and sat next to Christine at the little breakfast table. She lifted the cup to her mouth but the astringent smell of the wine hit her before she took a sip. She tried not to make a face as she set the wine down.

“Carol,” Christine said, fixing baby Gene’s collar. “Are you _sure_ there isn’t something else going on with you?”

“Like what?” she asked.

Christine looked pointedly from the toddler in her lap to Carol’s empty lap and back again.

“Oh! Oh my God, _no_ ,” Carol said. “No, definitely not. You know me, I’m always… very careful.”

“Well, ‘very careful’ is what brought us Miss Tammy,” Christine said.

“No,” Carol gasped. “Really?”

Christine nodded, then picked up Carol’s wine. “Diaphragm… whoops,” she murmured into the cup.

Carol went cold. She immediately tried to recall her last period, to reassure herself she wasn’t in trouble. But she couldn’t remember if it had been the 20th or the 30th without checking the little calendar she kept in her desk drawer. But even if had been the 20th, she thought, that wasn’t extravagantly late for her. Her cycles were often erratic, and she’d suffered through a false alarm more than once.

Anyway, she didn’t _feel_ sick. She remembers more than one of the girls in her college dorm, retching every morning before classes, and within months, they were married, or just gone. If anything, she was ravenous lately, as she usually was the week before her monthly friend came to visit.

For the rest of Thanksgiving, she struggled to make conversation at the dinner table while she analyzed her every inner thought. Did the smell of turnip curdle her stomach because she always hated it, or for some other reason? Had she turned down a second helping because the turkey was dry, or because she felt nauseated? Was her girdle pinching because she’d overeaten, or because it was now too small?

She surreptitiously checked her watch the moment dinner was over, waiting for someone else to leave first. Finally, one of Janice’s sisters gathered up her husband and three rowdy little boys and they all said their goodbyes. After they were gone, Carol turned to Jim and pointed out they should think of going home soon as well.

“Really?” he asked, setting his fork down next to a second slice of pie. He looked at her for a moment, then picked up the fork again.

“Okay,” he said. “What time’s the next train?”

Christine brought them back to the train station, parked the car, and walked in with them into the overheated waiting room. Jim went to the station agent for tickets while Christine sat next to Carol on the wooden bench.

“You’d tell me, right?” Christine asked quietly. “If you were… you know.”

“Oh… yes, of course,” Carol said. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Christine shrugged. “I know I hardly ever get to see you anymore, but… you’re still my friend, you know, my _best_ friend,” she said.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake, Jo, cut it out,” Carol said. She laughed and sniffled, fanning her face. Christine produced a Kleenex for each of them and they laughed while dabbing at their eyes.

“Jesus Christ,” Jim said. “Five minutes alone and you two are blubbering over nothing.” The two women only laughed harder.

Jo hugged them both and left them on the platform as the train arrived. Once onboard, Carol rested her head against the train car’s window and promptly fell asleep.

When she got home from Janice’s house that night, she checked the calendar she kept. Her last period hadn’t started on the 20th or the 30th. The last date marked with an asterisk was the 10th of October, seven weeks ago. She counted and recounted the days to be sure, then she went to the linen closet in the bathroom. Behind the bath towels, she found a box of sanitary napkins, still unopened. She thought maybe she’d gotten so busy she’d simply forgotten to write it down. She doubted she could have forgotten to mark the calendar but still remembered to buy more Kotex.

Now, Carol lingers with her hand on the telephone receiver, debating whether to call Christine. She picks up her address book, flips it open to Christine’s number, then closes it again. She doesn’t have anything to tell her, not for certain. 

Instead, she picks up her purse and takes it with her to the bedroom. She shuts the door and locks it. She takes the hard diaphragm case from the back of her stocking drawer and holds the rubber circle up to the light. No holes, no cracks, just the same as ever. She checks the tube of spermicidal jelly, but it isn’t set to expire for another year. She tucks these things away and gets the notebook from her purse. She sits on the edge of the bed and reads her notes again.

She gets up, strips off all of her clothes and stands in front of the full-length mirror, still holding the notebook. Her stomach looks the same as ever, no more rounded than before. She looks at her notes and checks her skin for _linea nigra_ , a dark line running from her navel to her pubic bone, but sees none.

She turns to one side then the other, looking at her breasts. They seemed slightly bigger and a little sore but that happened to her every month. The nipples weren't darker but… she notices a rich map of blue veins running just under her pale skin. It wasn’t listed as one of symptoms in the textbook. Maybe that also happened every month, and she’d never noticed.

She dresses again and lays on her bed. She presses on her belly with both hands, the same way her doctor does, but she doesn’t know what she’s supposed to be feeling around for. Nothing feels different.

_I would feel different, wouldn’t I?_ she thinks. 

#

She goes to bed early and wakes in the middle of a dream. She was chasing after a little girl, maybe 3 or 4 years old, through a big house she didn’t recognize. She caught the girl up in her arms then sat down in a chair with her on her lap. The girl had long dark hair spilling down her small back. Carol kept trying to tame the girl's hair into two braids but each time she braided it all the way to the ends, the top part of the plait came undone. It should have been frustrating but instead, she just laughed at having to start over. They both laughed. 

_It was so real_ , she thinks. She could still feel the tangles in the girl’s hair and the weight of her little body on her knees.

Next to her, Jim snores softly. She nudges him until he rolls onto his side and is quiet again. She runs a hand over his sandy colored hair and closes her eyes.

Just before she goes back to sleep, she envisions Leonard standing in a doorway. He’s holding the girl from her dream. Her feet are bare and pink. Her dark head lies against his shoulder. She is fast asleep.


	24. Jim

Jim sees him as he comes in the door. He breaks into a grin.

“Hey, Christopher,” he says, getting up from the diner counter to warmly shake hands. “Have any trouble finding the place?”

“No, your directions were perfect, thanks,” he says. He hangs his coat and hat on the rack and sits down.

Jim shakes his head. “Can’t get used to seeing you in a suit like everyone else.”

Christopher looks down at his clothes, then straightens his tie. “Sometimes I can’t believe it myself,” he says. “Lucky for me I’ve got a wife who’s more than happy to tell me which tie goes with which suit.”

“And how’s married life so far?” Jim asks. “You need any advice from an old hand like me?”

Christopher smirks and adds a bit of cream to his coffee. “I think I’ve got things under control, thanks, son. It's good, though.” He pauses, watching the cream billow in his cup before stirring. “Different from how I thought it would be, but good. Really good. Speaking of, how is Carol?”

_Your guess is as good as mine_ , he wants to say. This morning she turned away a cup of coffee as if it were poison. Instead, she made a cup of tea and brought it back to bed with her, along with yet another stack of incomprehensible papers to correct. As he left, she just told him to enjoy himself, without even looking up from her work.

“Good,” Jim says. “She’s good.”

The waitress takes their orders—eggs, sunny-side up, bacon, sausage, toast—and then they sit for a few minutes in friendly silence.

“How is it to be back in New York?” Jim asks. “As good as you’d hoped?”

“Well,” he says. “I’ve had the waist of my pants let out twice already. I’d say it’s been good so far.” He smiles and thanks the waitress as she refills his coffee. “What about you? You ever miss Iowa?”

Jim shakes his head. “Not really. Nothing there for me anymore.”

“I heard about your mother and her husband when it happened,” Christopher says. “I tried to get in touch with you back then, but my letters came back as undeliverable.”

Jim nods. “I never was much for letters anyway.”

The waitress puts plates in front of them.

"Enjoy," she says.

Jim jabs an egg yolk with his fork until it bleeds out across the whites.

“How’s the job?” Christopher asks.

“Pretty good. Angling for a promotion, in fact,” Jim says. “Guy above me resigned and I’m looking to take over his job.”

He doesn't repeat the rumors he’s heard swirling around the office: Matthews didn’t just quit. He was forced out by the higher-ups at the State Department under Executive Order 10450: _Any criminal, infamous, dishonest, immoral, or notoriously disgraceful conduct, habitual use of intoxicants to excess, drug addiction, or sexual perversion._

“Hard to believe sometimes you were that spotty-faced kid who’d rather go to reform school,” Christopher says.

“Come on, I didn’t look that bad,” Jim laughs.

Christopher shrugs. “You grew out of it,” he says. “I guess you turned out alright.”

When the waitress leaves the check, they squabble over who gets to pay it. Jim wins by insisting Christopher can pick up the tab next time, but Christopher leaves a generous tip for the waitress before Jim can. They get their coats and walk to the Church of Notre Dame together.

Inside the church, Christopher barely has a chance to look around before Jim interrupts.

“Behind the altar, that’s a reproduction of the grotto where the Virgin Mary appeared to Saint Bernadette,” he says.

Christopher looks at Jim for a minute, fixing him in the same gaze he gave Jim when he was a kid.

“Carol told me,” Jim admits.

Christopher nods and smiles. “Pretty and smart,” he says. “You’d better hang onto that.”

They find a pew in the center of the church and Jim realizes how much he’s missed having someone next to him. They don’t talk during Mass, but just sharing the experience with someone else makes Jim feel more at peace than he has in weeks. His mind doesn’t wander, he just sits and lets the liturgy fill him like an empty cup.

When Mass ends, Jim takes Christopher by the elbow and steers him towards the back of the church. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet,” he says.

“Father McCoy,” Jim calls out, and the priest turns around. “I thought that was you. There’s someone I’d like you to meet. This is Christopher Pike. He was one of the brothers at the school I attended. He’s the one who kept inviting me to Mass with him until one day I gave in.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Father McCoy says, shaking Christopher’s hand.

“Of course, now he’s not Brother Christopher any more,” Jim says. “Just another working stiff like the rest of us.”

The priest raises his eyebrows, but doesn’t ask.

“I teach high school out in Queens now,” Christopher says. “I teach religious studies and my wife teaches biology.”

Father McCoy nods.“I take it that’s why you returned to secular life,” he says. “Have you been married long?”

“Just over a year now,” Christopher says.

Jim shakes his head. “I just still can’t believe it. I never thought you’d run off and get married,” he says. “Love really does conquer all.”

Father McCoy tugs at his sleeves from under his jacket. “I’m sorry but I’ve got to be going,” he says. “It was very nice meeting you, Mr. Pike.”

“Likewise, Father,” Christopher says, and he shakes hands with the priest again before Father McCoy walks away. “I’ve got to go, too, Jim. I promised Majel I’d bring home lox from Zabar’s.” He puts a solid hand on Jim’s shoulder. “See you soon,” he says.

“See you,” Jim says. “Have a safe trip back.”

He watches Christopher walk away, then takes a seat in one of the pews by the confessional doors. He sits and thinks while he waits for his turn.

#

When he’s nearly the last one left in the pews, Jim steps into the little booth. He tries to collect his thoughts and calm himself, as he always does.

The wooden door slides back behind the grille and the priest begins to speak. In an instant, Jim realizes that it's Father McCoy and his mind eases a little. He’s always liked knowing who was on the other side of the partition. It made him feel safe, like he could confess anything and be forgiven.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” Jim says. “It has been a week since my last confession and I completed my penance. I accuse myself of the following sins…” He takes a breath and reminds himself that the seal of the confessional is airtight. No matter what.

“I engaged in carnal acts with someone other than my wife,” he says.

From his side of the grille, Jim hears nothing. The priest sits in silence for so long, Jim starts to wonder if he’s nodded off.

“Father?” he asks quietly.

“I heard you,” Father McCoy says. “Please continue.”

“It… happened twice,” he says.

“With the same girl?”

“No,” Jim says.

They sit in silence again and Jim feels himself starting to sweat in the stuffy little box.

“How many times?” the priest asks.

“Twice, like I said.”

“And this has never happened before?”

He thinks how easy it would be to lie. He could say _no, nothing like this has never happened before,_ because in truth, he hadn’t ever screwed around with another girl before last Friday night. It had always been part of his code, that no matter what else he got up to, Carol was always the only woman for him.

“It’s happened before,” Jim says. “But… with someone else.”

“How many times?” the priest asks again.

Jim tries to think. He’d been going out on Friday nights since early in their marriage but it wasn’t as if he got into trouble every week. 

_Only sometimes_ , he thinks. _Once a month? Less?_

“I-I don’t know,” he says. “Not that often.”

The priest mutters _not that often_ , almost to himself, and Jim resists an urge to loosen his tie.

“Why?” Father McCoy asks.

“Why… why what?” Jim looks through the grille. The priest’s gaze is cast down, his mouth tightly drawn.

“Why were you unfaithful?” he asks, without looking up.

Jim doesn’t know how he can explain it in a way the priest could understand.

For so long, he used to watch Carol’s face when he made love to her. Her eyes fluttered shut, her features softened… and she was so unguarded, so impossibly beautiful that way. He knew she was his, utterly and wholly, and in those moments, he loved her more than his own life.

But she stopped closing her eyes.

She still kissed him and touched him and sighed… but even in their dark bedroom, he could see her eyes darting this way and that, the same way she does when Sunday Mass drags on too long. She was _thinking_. She was there physically, but her mind was elsewhere, not with him. The first time it happened, he felt as if she’d slapped him. Still, he tried to brush it off. She had been working too much. She was tired, distracted.

When it happened again, he stopped and looked at her until she knew he was watching her. She smiled up at him and he kissed her slowly, deliberately. Her eyes closed. But when he looked again, he saw her eyes had opened and he felt a light inside him go dark, snuffed out. He laid still on top of her for a moment, almost trembling. Then he pulled away.

He kissed her cheek, rolled over, and pretended to go to sleep. She stroked the back of his head just once, then turned over. He laid there for what seemed like hours, staring into the dark. _What could she have been thinking about? What was more important than this?_

So, last Friday, after he zipped up his pants and said another uncomfortable goodbye to Hikaru, his thoughts instinctively turned to going home to Carol. But the idea made him furious _. Why should I?_ he thought. _Why bother?_

Some girl began to flirt with him and he let her. He drew her away from the party and into a dark hallway. She put her arms around his neck and he lifted her skirt and fucked her right there against the wall, kissing her only to mute the little noises she made. He got home close to two o’clock in the morning, stripped off his clothes, and headed into the shower. Carol didn’t even stir in her sleep when he climbed into bed.

“I… can’t explain why, Father,” Jim says. “It just kind of happened.”

“Happened _again_ , you mean.”

Jim’s mouth opens and shuts.

“Who was she?” the priest asks.

“I… I don’t know,” he says. “Just some girl. It won’t happen again.” He puts a hand on the wall to steady himself, feeling the booth closing in around him.

“I want you to think,” Father McCoy says slowly, as if carefully choosing each word. “Really _think_ about what you’ve done. I’m sure your wife… loves you. Very much. Have you considered how much you’re hurting her?”

“Y-yes, Father.”

“God alone knows the enormity of your sins. You must detest your sin, and turn away from it, to be reconciled with God.” The priest’s voice is low, almost threatening. “Don’t let yourself be led astray again.”

“I won’t,” Jim says. “I swear it.”

The priest begins to offer a prayer of absolution and Jim only half hears it over the sound of the blood pounding in his ears: _for the forgiveness of sins… grant you pardon and peace…in the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit._

He barely mumbles _amen_ and thanks Father McCoy before the priest snaps the partition closed. His hands shake a little as he takes a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes sweat from the back of his neck. He stumbles out of the confessional, into the nearest pew. He bows his head and returns to his senses by degrees.

_I won’t go out Friday night any more_ , he promises himself. _Or, if I do, I just won’t go anywhere I could get into trouble._

_It’ll be fine,_ he thinks _. Everything’s going to be fine._


	25. Carol

She looks at the pocket calendar again. The last date circled is October 10 and she counts the days forward from there. When she reaches fourteen, her finger lands on the 24th, a Friday. The last time she saw Leonard.

_But that was only once_ , she thinks. _It doesn’t seem fair_.

She lays a hand over her nearly flat belly.

_Who do you belong to, Pip?_ she asks.

The obstetrics textbook she read said by the fifth week of development, an embryo is the size of an orange seed and she was dumbfounded by the notion, that something so small could be alive inside her at that very moment. She bought oranges at the market that night after leaving the library, and ate one standing over the sink, rolling one of its pips between her thumb and forefinger. Since then, she thought of what grew in her not as _he_ or _she_ or even _baby_ , but simply as _Pip_.

She addressed her thoughts to Pip throughout the day with increasing frequency as the weeks wore on, the way she might address a real child. _What do we want for lunch, Pip? Cold out here today, isn’t it, Pip? Who do you belong to, Pip?_

She looks at her calendar again. The timing would have been exactly right.

_Or exactly wrong. No offense intended, Pip._

Part of her wonders if her dream of the little girl had been a sign, if her unconscious mind was expressing the secret her body held: Pip would be a girl with dark hair, the same color as her father’s. But she tries to push thoughts like those from her mind. Any baby she had would be Jim’s, end of discussion. 

Still, she wonders if she’ll ever know, if some maternal instinct will spring to life and she might look at that newborn face and immediately know, _you are his_ or _you are not his._

She looks at the calendar again and counts forward from October 24th to today. Just over seven weeks. She starts over and counts nine months forward. July 31, 1959. That seems an impossibly long time to her. She folds the calendar away and shoves it to the back of her desk drawer.

#

Even though there’s another market closer, she still goes to the one that takes her past the rectory. She still looks at the rectory's windows and wonders which room is his and what he might be doing, but it doesn’t fill her with the same illicit thrill any more. Now she just walks past, and hopes he finds comfort in his faith, and she wishes she could do the same. 

_I bet that's nice_ , she thinks, _to feel surrounded by something bigger than yourself and find solace in it, without always having to ask questions_. She can’t keep from asking questions, any more than she can keep from eating or sleeping.

She wonders if she could ever go to Leonard and tell him what she thinks but she can’t even guess how he might react. He couldn’t accuse her of having done it on purpose, trying to trap him into marriage. He might refuse to believe her, or even deny that her child could possibly be his, just to protect his position.

_Would he do that?_

She walks slower.

_No_ , she decides. _He wouldn’t._

In her head, she tries to hear herself saying it to him _: I think I’m going to have a baby. I think I might pregnant. I think it may be yours_. She remembers his face as he stood there in the subway station, when he said goodbye, how he smiled at her and still looked sad.

Suddenly, she thinks it would be cruel to tell him, to dangle another glimpse of happiness in front of him and then snatch it back again. She asks herself how she could add to the grief she’s already inflicted, showing him a child he could never acknowledge as his.

_But he ought to know,_ she thinks. _He has a right to know He might be happy about it._ She sees herself at Christmas a year from now, handing him an infant in a red velvet dress. _This is your daughter_ , she might say. But the elation and wonder she imagines in his face is like grasping a hot coal and she quickly shakes free from the thought.

Instead, she makes herself think of how she’s going to tell Jim. At least she knows he’ll be happy to hear the news, that's she pregnant with his child. _His_ , she tells herself. She repeats it in her head _. His, his, his. Jim's. No one else's_. 

_Maybe I should wait until I know for sure_ , she thinks. _Maybe this is just another false alarm._ She wanted to make an appointment with her doctor, but he’s away until after the first of the year. She goes back and forth in her head as she walks, trying to decide whether to tell him or not. 

When she passes the children’s clothing store, she pauses. She’s probably passed it a hundred times before without even stopping to look. But there, in the window, is a pair of tiny crib shoes. They’re made of mint green satin, edged with pink lace, with pink ribbons to tie them on.

In an instant, she knows how she’ll tell Jim: she’ll buy the shoes and give them to him at Christmas. Then she’ll tell him she doesn’t know for sure, not yet, but she thinks so. She can already imagine his face turning from confusion to disbelief and, she thinks, happiness. 

The bell above the door jingles as she enters the shop.

She takes a minute to look around, making her way to the shoes. She picks up a pair of plain white infant shoes and debates buying them instead of the frilly green ones, knowing they would be far more practical. What if Pip were a boy? But then she sees the satin shoes again and puts the others aside. The pair of shoes together is still no bigger than her palm.

A sales clerk asks if she’s found what she’s looking for.

“Yes,” she says. “I’d like a pair of these shoes in whatever size you think will fit a newborn.”

She takes a seat on the bench among the shoes while she waits for the clerk to return. A little boy with bright brown eyes peeks at her from behind a cardboard Buster Brown display. She pretends not to see him at first but he keeps doing it, so intent on catching her eye. She relents. She smiles, waggles her fingers at him. He saunters over and stands next to her knee, and looks up at her through long eyelashes. His cheeks are red, rashy looking, and his nose is running. She tries not to recoil when he places his hot, sticky hand on hers.

“Hi,” she says. “What’s your name?”

He doesn’t answer, but pats her hand.

“Billy!” a woman says, charging down the aisle. “Go stay with your brother and stop bothering that nice woman.” She grabs the boy by the arm and drags him away from Carol, then swats him on the behind. Billy doesn’t seem to care that he’s been spanked and somehow that seems worse to Carol than if he’d started to wail.

“No… it’s fine,” she says. “He wasn’t bothering me.”

The woman doesn’t seem to hear her. “Sorry, miss,” she says, and roughly pulls the boy away.

The sales clerk returns with the shoes and asks if she needs anything else.

“No,” she says. “No, thank you. That’s all for today.”

As she waits at the counter, she turns her attention to the tiny shoebox in her hands. It reads _Mrs. Day’s Ideal Baby Shoe. Danvers, Mass. Size 0_. She silently urges the sales girl to ring her up faster so she can finally get out of the store and away from the woman still scolding Billy or his brother or perhaps both. It isn’t until she steps out onto the sidewalk that she feels like she can breathe again.

#

On her way back from the market, she passes by the church and she slows down again, wondering if Leonard’s inside. She checks her watch. He might be in there hearing confessions right now. She checks her grocery bag: bread, some cans, a few apples, nothing that will spoil if she doesn't hurry home. She hides the baby shoes under the bread and walks into the church. She places the bag by her feet and sits in a pew. She lays her hands in her lap, drops her chin, and tries to pray.

_Give me a sign,_ she thinks. _If he’s in there right now, I’ll tell him. If he’s not, I… I won’t. Not ever._

The church is overly warm, and the incense makes her feel lightheaded. She holds onto the pew in front of her and rests her forehead on her hands.

_Please, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. If you’re listening to me, show me a sign. Please._

She hears the confessional door creak open, and then shut. She looks up and waits until the little light above the door goes out. She picks up her coat and bag, then steps into the booth. She kneels and folds her hands, her knuckles white.

From the other side of the closed partition, she hears a sigh and she knows, knows without seeing. He slides the window open and begins to speak. The Southern inflection in his Latin prayer is so soft, barely there, but she hears it and every syllable is like a touch on her skin.

“May the Lord be in thy heart and on thy lips,” he says, before he finally looks up. “So that thou mayest…”

She watches as his eyes widen and a smile starts to form on his lips. Then, like the drawing down of a shade, he blinks slowly and his face grows serious. He looks down and scowls.

“So that thou mayest rightly confess all thy sins,” he finishes flatly.

She shrinks away. She thinks she should get up and walk out but part of her wants to stay and just look at him, even in his unhappiness, for as long as she can.

“Carol,” he says, meeting her eyes for a second and then looking away. “I can’t absolve you of… what we did, if that’s why you’re here. It’s not allowed.” 

“I… no, that’s not why I’m here,” she says. Confessing about that night hadn’t occurred to her, not once. It’s something she should confess and she asks herself why she hadn’t thought of it.

“Then why are you here?” he asks.

“I… don’t really know,” she says. “I was passing by and, I don’t know, I just had this urge to go in.”

She can feel the words she meant to say, can feel her mouth and lips forming them, but it's as if she can't catch her breath to say them aloud. She places her hand on the partition that separates them, her fingertips just touching the grille in the window.

He touches his fingertip to hers through the screen, delicately finding her skin between the gaps.

“It’ll get better,” he says, softly.

“It _won’t_ ,” she whispers. “It hasn’t. There isn’t a single day that’s gone by that I haven’t want to see you or talk to you or… tell you something.” She presses her fingers harder into the lattice.

He leans closer and shushes her tenderly. “We have to try,” he says. “I know it’s hard, but we have to try.”

_But I don’t want to_. All she wants to do is stay where she is, with his fingers brushing against hers.

“Okay.” She sighs. “Okay, I’ll try. But… I really miss you,” she says. “More than I thought I would.”

She watches his face soften, the scowl all but gone, and she feels braver.

“And I still wish we’d gone to Coney Island,” she adds.

He smirks. “Oh, yeah?” he says. “And what we were going to do there? Enter the hot-dog eating contest?”

She shakes her head. “Williams Candy. They make the greatest candy apples you’ve ever had. That’s where I’d take you.”

She can see the candy store window, with its rows of apples on display, candy and caramel and coconut. She imagines their reflection in the glass, glinting in the summer sun. Her hand is in his.

“That sounds nice,” he says. “I’m sorry I’ll have to miss it.”

“Me, too,” she says.

She takes a last look at him, framed by the square window between them. She studies each of his features so that if she ever sees them again in the face of her child, she’ll recognize it.

“I should go,” she says. She picks up her coat and shopping bag.

“Merry Christmas, Carol,” he says.

She nods.

“Merry Christmas.”

#

The next morning, when she gets out of bed, all her joints ache: her hips, her elbows, her back. She feels as if she’s aged fifty years overnight.

_If this is your doing, Pip_ , she thinks _, it isn’t very nice_.

She tells herself she must be coming down with something, maybe some form of the ’flu that’s going around. But the end of the semester is so close, and she still has so much to do. She makes herself tea and toast, then struggles to get dressed.

Every step on her walk to campus is agonizing, and the hard seats in the lecture hall offer her no relief. She hands in her last paper of the semester, and then drags herself to Professor Scott’s office to pick up his students’ final exams.

When she gets there, he takes one look at her and insists that she sit down.

“Are y’feeling alright?” he asks. “You look a bit peaky.”

She sinks into the leather chair. “I’m fine,” she says. “Just a little under the weather.” He pours her a cup of tea, and she gratefully accepts.

“You’re pushing yourself too hard,” he says, gently. “You haven’t got anything to prove to me.”

“Maybe not to _you_ , but to everyone else.” The words come out of her mouth before she can stop herself. Professor Scott sits on the edge of his desk, looking at her with his arms folded. She cringes at having been so frank.

“Fuck ’em,” he says, and she laughs weakly. “Don’t let the bastards grind you down. Now, come on and get your coat. I’ll drive you home.”

#

In her bedroom, she changes into her warmest flannel nightgown. She gathers up everything she thinks she might need until tomorrow: a sleeve of saltines, a bottle of aspirin, a carafe of water and a drinking glass. She closes the bedroom door and climbs into bed, just as the winter sun begins to set.

Hours later, she wakes enough to hear Jim open and then softly close the bedroom door, and then she hears him turn on the television. He doesn't bother her when she’s sick, and yet part of her always hopes he will. She wishes he'd place a cool hand on her fevered but he never does.

She falls asleep again and wakes up in the middle of the night, soaked with sweat, her fever broken. She takes off the damp nightgown and puts on another. Her joints still ache as she gets back into bed.

Jim stays home with her Friday night, even though she insists she’s feeling much better. She sits on the couch with him and corrects student exams while keeping one eye on the television. Between programs, she gets up to go to the bathroom. She thinks about how many more exams she’ll need to correct and how she still needs to wrap Jim’s Christmas gifts. She glances down at the tissue in her hand. Red blood soaks into the white paper. She stares at it.

_Oh_ , she thinks.

She touches a speck of the clotted blood, thick and dark.

_Oh… I guess I was wrong_.

She scrubs away the blood staining her fingers, then retrieves the box of napkins and her belt from the linen closet. She sits on the couch again and takes the stack of papers into her lap. She looks at the television without watching it.

_I guess I was wrong after all_.

She thinks about the tiny shoebox hidden in her dresser drawer. She won’t need to wrap it now.

#

Halfway through Sunday Mass, the first cramp nearly doubles her over. She takes her hand out of Jim’s grasp. She tries to breathe slowly through her nose, her hands clenching into fists. Each time she needs to sit or stand or kneel a fresh wave of pain threatens to drown her. Her scalp prickles with sweat.

At home, she goes directly to the bathroom and vomits until her stomach is empty. She rinses her mouth at the sink. She fills the hot water bottle from the kettle and goes back to bed with it, clinging to its heat. She drifts in and out of consciousness for what seems like hours. Later, she barely makes it back to bathroom to vomit again. Jim watches from the couch as she walks back to the bedroom.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

She just nods, her mouth shut tight.

The cramps come and go all day Monday, and she tries to keep them at bay, taking aspirin around the clock. The blood soaks one Kotex after another and she stuffs each one deep into the trash with a sense of embarrassment and shame.She tries to focus on the papers she’s correcting but when the pain comes back, her vision swims. She keeps urging herself on _: just one more paper, just one more and then you can quit._

When she walks to campus with the finished exams in her bag, she has to stop several times and wait for each cramp to pass. She feels hot and cold at the same time, sweating even as her teeth chatter. She reaches the building where Professor Scott’s office is, and the hallway seems to stretch out into infinity. As she walks, her shoulder bumps along the wall. Far in front of her, Professor Scott emerges from his office. He turns towards her and his mouth moves but she only hears a rushing sound, like the crash of a wave on the shore.

She blinks.

Professor Scott is kneeling over her. She tries to tell him the papers are in her bag, but she can’t tell whether she spoke the words aloud or not. Professor Scott is saying something, and she struggles to stay awake to hear it.

Two young men in white uniforms are touching her, lifting her up, and she doesn’t know where they came from. They wheel her down the hallway and she catches sight of people staring, watching her pass by. She covers her face and lets the blackness take her.


	26. Leonard

At the rectory’s kitchen table, he unfolds a subway map, spreading it out over the table before setting his coffee down next to it. There, at the bottom edge of the map, he finds it. _Coney Island Stillwell_. He’s disappointed to see that it isn't an actual island.

He finds his own stop, its name abbreviated to something almost inscrutable: _Cathedl Pky-110 St (Bwy)._ He traces a route with his finger, skimming over the creased paper.

_So_ , he thinks _. We would take the IRT to 42nd Street, then switch to a BMT train bound for Sea Beach, all the way to the end._

It’s the day before Christmas and this, he’s decided, is a Christmas gift to himself. He’s going to allow himself to fantasize about taking Carol to Coney Island. He knows almost nothing about what's there, but he's heard there's a boardwalk by the beach and a huge Ferris wheel. He lets himself believe that she would be afraid of heights and imagines putting an arm around her shoulders to reassure her. He can almost feel her warm skin under his fingers, with flecks of sand and salt clinging to her.

_Because why not?_ he thinks. _Why can't I at least just think about her?_

For weeks, he struggled for weeks to push her from his mind, day and night, asking for God’s help, for His guidance. He reminded himself that even if he was free, she still belonged to someone else. He prayed Jim was good to her, that he loved her, but now Leonard knew the truth. Jim was a liar and cheat. And worst of all, Jim couldn’t even say _why_ he did it.

Leonard would like to think it happened because Carol turned her back on Jim. He lets himself wonder if now she spurned Jim’s advances because she was secretly pining for him. He knows it couldn’t be true, but he’d like to think that was why.

_How could he want anyone besides her?_ He thinks of her in his confessional booth that day. The instant he saw her, he wanted to kick down the wall between them. _Your husband’s a louse_ , he wanted to say. _You deserve better_. He wanted to kiss her, again and again, right there. 

_Is this how You answer my prayers, Lord?_ he thinks. _Make me listen to her telling me she misses me? It’s not fair._

He drinks his coffee and wonders if he should pour himself another. The other priests were resting upstairs, napping before tonight’s midnight Mass. He always loved how Advent culminated in the glorious Christmas Mass, but something about this year felt flat, missing some element he couldn’t name.

In the hall, the phone rings. Before he can decide whether he should answer it, it stops ringing. He hears someone speaking.

Felix sticks his head into the kitchen.

“Phone call for you, Len,” he says. He looks at the map spread over the table. “You going somewhere?”

Leonard shrugs. “Maybe,” he says. “You never know.”

He walks into the hall, picks up the receiver and says hello.

“Father McCoy?” the man on the other end asks.

“Speaking.”

“It’s Jim Kirk.”

_Speak of the devil_ , he thinks.

“Listen,” Jim says. “Carol’s been in the hospital, over at Presbyterian.”

Leonard sinks into the rickety phone chair. "She... what?" he asks.

“Don’t worry,” Jim says. “She’s going to be fine. But she’d probably like to see a friendly face, if you could manage it. I know it’s Christmas Eve and all…”

“Wh-where did you say she was?” Leonard searches for the paper and pencil by the phone.

“Presbyterian Hospital,” Jim says. “I forget the room number but they’ve got her in the maternity ward.”

Leonard scrawls the hospital name across the page then stops short. “The… I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“It’s… some kind of female troubles,” Jim says. “The doctor said she was probably, well, you know, in a family way without knowing it, but for whatever reason, it just… didn’t take.”

Leonard swallows, his mouth dry.

“But like I said,” Jim continues, “she’s fine. I saw her this morning and they said she’ll be out in a few days.”

“I… yes, of course, I’ll go see her,” Leonard says.

“Good,” Jim says. “I bet she’d like that. I’ve got to finish up here at the office, but thanks, Father,” Jim says. “And if I don’t see you, merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” Leonard says automatically and then hangs up the phone.

He sits there for a moment, watching motes of dust swirl in the slanted afternoon light. He can hear Felix pouring a cup of coffee in the kitchen and Father Lawrence’s snore coming from somewhere upstairs. He looks at the notepad again.

He walks back into the kitchen. Felix is looking at the subway map.

“Where is Presbyterian Hospital?” Leonard asks. “And how do I get there?”

“A hundred and sixty-something street,” Felix says. He looks up from the map and stares at Leonard for a moment. “What’s happened? What’s going on?”

“It’s... Carol. She’s in the hospital.” He motions towards the map. “Will you help me figure out how to get there?”

Felix is on his feet already. “I’ll drive you there,” he says. “It’ll be faster. Let’s go.”

As they drive up Broadway, Leonard counts the streets in his head as they pass. _138th, 139th, 140th…_ He holds his breath at every red light, willing it to change faster.

When they arrive at the hospital, he grips the door handle, ready to leap out, but Felix insists on finding a place to park.

“I’ll wait right here for you,” he says. “Take as much time as want.”

Leonard just nods and gets out of the car.

Inside, he follows the signs to the maternity ward but still gets lost. He tries not to pace as he waits for an elevator to arrive. When he reaches the right floor, he asks a nurse at the desk where he can find Carol Kirk. He repeats the room number to himself as he walks down the corridor.

The door to her room is open but a curtain is around the bed. He waits in the doorway, until a stout young nurse draws the curtains away. The nurse smiles as she approaches him.

“Is she okay?” he asks.

“Yes, Father, she’s much better,” the nurse says.

“Can I… see her? Is she sleeping?”

“I’ve just given her something for the pain, so she may seem a little _loopy_.” She rolls her eyes and waggles her head, as if to demonstrate. “But I’m sure she’ll appreciate the company.”

“Thank you, nurse,” he says.

The nurse smiles. “I’ll be at the desk if she needs anything,” she says, and she closes the door as she leaves.

The room is quiet and cold and smells of disinfectant. Carol looks so small, propped up in the oversized hospital bed. Her eyes are closed, with dark shadows beneath. There are flowers by her bedside and he curses himself for not thinking to bring some for her.

He sits on the edge of the bed hesitantly and stares at her hand before reaching out and touching it. Her eyes open and she looks around, unfocused. She looks at him for a moment before she seems to recognize him.

“Hi,” he says, squeezing her hand softly.

Her mouth opens as if to speak, but her expression crumples. She pulls her hand away, hides her face in her hands, and begins to sob.

The sound of her weeping is agonizing and he doesn’t know what to do. He tries to quiet her, telling her _it’s alright, everything will be alright_ , but she doesn’t seem to hear him. He puts his hands on her shoulders, her skin warm under the thin nightgown.

Behind her hands, she mumbles something he can’t make out.He gently takes her hands away, still shushing her in a soft voice.

She stares at her hands, laying in her lap.

“I’m _sorry_ ,” she says, and begins to cry again. “I’m so sorry. Please don’t be angry with me. I don’t know how it happened.”

“Shh… I’m not angry,” he says. He tenderly brushes the tears from her cheeks. “Why would I be angry with you?”

“Oh, Leonard,” she sighs, and the sound of his name cuts him to the bone. He wants to slip into bed alongside her and tuck her head beneath his chin again. He can’t think of anything else to do. She rests her head back against the pillow and tears stream from the corners of her eyes, wetting her hair at the temples. All he can do is watch.

She grips his wrist, and her small hand is like a vise.

“Am I being punished?” she asks in a low voice. “Is God punishing me?”

“What?” he asks gently. “Why would you ever think that?”

“Because I said I would tell you,” she whispers. “I asked for a sign and I said if you were there, then I would tell you, and then I… I _didn’t_.” Her eyes are wide and glassy, the pupils constricted.

“Tell me what?” he asks. “Whatever it was, it’s okay. God’s not punishing you, honey. Sometimes… bad things just happen.”

She shakes her head. He lays his hand over hers, and her grip softens. She closes her eyes.

“Oh, I dreamt about her,” she says sleepily. “It was so real. She had such beautiful dark hair. I thought for sure it was a sign.” She rubs her thumb against the underside of his wrist. “I would have loved her so much, I swear.” She sighs and then falls silent. 

In the quiet, he tries to piece her fractured thoughts together. 

_Jim said she didn’t know_ , Leonard thinks. _Dark hair… Oh, God. Oh, my God._

“Did she have a soul yet?” she asks, without opening her eyes.

He runs through centuries of thought in a moment, trying to find her an answer that won’t hurt.

“No one really knows,” he says. “Only God knows.”

He looks at her hand around his wrist.

“Carol,” he whispers. “What was it you were going to tell me?” But her eyes are closed, her breathing deep and even. He sits and watches her sleep.

_What did you want to tell me?_ He wants her to answer, even though he already knows.

He releases her hand, places it gently on the bed.

_You could have told me_ , he thinks. _Oh, sweetheart, I wish you had told me._

Outside the hospital, he walks almost all the way around the block before finding Felix. The car is overheated and stuffy, and he can’t bring himself to look at Felix. He slumps against the car door and rests his head in his hand.

“Len, what happened?” Felix asks. “Is she okay? I thought you said she was fine.”

Leonard shakes his head.

_Why?_ he thinks _. How can this possibly be part of Your plan?_

“No, she’s fine, she’s going to be fine,” he says. “She just… she looked so sick and so _small_.” He clears his throat.

Felix grips the steering wheel with both hands. He nods and then starts the car. “We should go,” he says.

#

All throughout the midnight Mass, everywhere he looks, he sees children—little ones nodding off in the pews, older ones excited to be out so late—and babies. So many of them, in the arms of their parents, sleeping or crying or just gaping at everything around them. He finds it hardest to look at the smallest ones.

_Gone_ , he keeps thinking. _Whatever it was going to be, it’s just gone now_. 

He goes through the service by rote, without thinking. Someone reads the story of the nativity from the Book of Luke: _And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn._

For the first time, he thinks of Mary not as the Blessed Virgin but as a woman, just a girl, really. He wonders if she had been afraid, alone and far from home. There had been no help for Mary in Bethlehem, no friendly young nurse in a jaunty white cap.

He thinks about Carol, sleeping in that hospital bed and hears her saying _I would have loved her so much_. He doesn’t doubt it for a second. How long did she know, he wonders. And how much did she go through alone, without telling anyone.

_Poor Carol_ , _my poor Carol_ , he thinks. _My God… why?_ _How_ _could_ _You_?

He had assured her what had happened was no punishment. Now, he isn’t sure.

_Yes, I’ve sinned, Lord. I’m a sinner who asked for Your forgiveness, like any other man,_ he thinks. _Is this... is this Your punishment? Your divine retribution? How is this just? How is it merciful? You expect me to just stand here and watch You inflict pain on the woman I love? Was I not grateful enough? Did I not praise You enough? How can I ever understand why You would take it away, take back what could have been our…_

He squeezes his eyes shut.

He tries to bring himself to think the words, to put a name on what God so readily erased from existence, with no more thought than a misspelled word.

_Our child_ , he thinks. _You spiteful bastard_.

His eyes snap open and his heart thunders in his ears, as if he’d said the thought aloud. He looks around, half expecting to see someone staring at him, as if they knew. Just thinking it feels traitorous. 

He'd never been a willful child, never had a rebellious phase. Now he looks around at the church, how it glows with the light from a thousand candles, and all he can think is: _You can’t tell me what to do anymore._

Immediately, he feels lighter, as if he’d laid down a burden he was unaware he was carrying. He thinks it again— _You can’t tell me what to do!—_ and wants to laugh aloud.

When the Mass ends, he slips through the back of the church, grabs his coat from the rack in the sacristy, and steps out into the night. A few snowflakes blow around and he stops to watch them from under a streetlight. He walks to the subway and gets on an uptown train.

The 168th Street stop lets him off right next to the hospital. He loosens his scarf and unbuttons his coat before entering. He knows no one will stop a priest for seeing someone outside of visiting hours but still, he walks quickly, with purpose. He avoids the nurses’ station on the ward floor and slips quietly into Carol's room.

There’s a small light on next to her bed. Her blonde hair splays out across the pillow. He’s torn between wanting to wake her or to let her stay asleep.

Next to the bedside lamp, he finds a pencil and a small notebook. He tears a sheet from the back and hopes she won’t mind.

He hovers over the scrap of paper for what seems like ages before deciding what to write.

_A. —_

_I think I know what you wanted to tell me._

_Please come see me as soon as you’re feeling better._

_I love you._

_— W._

He folds the note and tucks it into the pocket of the dressing gown that hangs over the foot of the bed, knowing she’s sure to find it in there as soon she puts it on.

Before he leaves, he sweeps her hair away from her face and kisses her forehead, twice, three times, in succession, across her warm skin. She stirs in her sleep and sighs contentedly without waking.

#

He tries to keep the big front door from creaking when he returns to the rectory. Felix is sitting at the kitchen table again and Leonard’s stomach sours.

He scowls. “Don’t you ever sleep?”

“I was beginning to worry about you,” Felix says. “Come in and have a seat."

“No, look… I’m really not in the mood,” Leonard says.

Felix waves his hand, brushing away the idea. “Come on,” he says. “Humor an old man, will you?”

Leonard huffs and drops into a kitchen chair. At the stove, Felix takes a saucepan off one of the burners and divides its contents between two mugs. He pours a generous amount of bourbon into each and hands one to Leonard.

“Merry Christmas, boy,” Felix says, lifting his own mug in a toast.

Leonard grumbles under his breath before returning the gesture. The milk is hot and sweet and he feels sleepier almost as soon as he swallows.

“You really love her, don’t you?” Felix asks, quietly.

Leonard sets his mug down on the table and stares at it.

“We’ve known each other a little while now, right?” Felix asks. “Little bit more than a year?”

Leonard nods. “Something like that.” 

“I thought I knew you pretty good,” Felix says. “But I never saw you light up like you did when I saw that girl walking towards you that day over by the market. You remember that?” He shakes his head. “Like someone throwing a switch. But I thought it was… just some schoolboy thing, something silly you’d get over.”

He peers into his mug and then Leonard’s. He gets up and takes the saucepan from the stove.

“But I saw your face today, Len,” Felix says. “And I’m telling you, you don’t hurt that bad seeing someone in the hospital unless you _love_ them.”

“Yeah,” Leonard says. “I do. I dunno how it happened but, God help me, I… really do.”

“So, what’re you going to do about it?”

Leonard shrugs helplessly. “I don’t know,” he says. “What _can_ I do?”

Felix refills both mugs then settle into his chair again.

“Do you want to leave the priesthood?” Felix asks. 

Leonard blinks. He had never considered it, not even to himself. He immediately thinks of all the reasons he should stay. _This is my life, my calling, the only thing I’ve wanted to do since I was 17. I don’t even know how to do anything else, where would I go, how would I live?_

“Oh God,” Leonard says, rubbing his eyes. “I don’t know. I really don’t know.”

Felix leans on his elbows, waiting for an answer, but Leonard can only think of one reason he should leave.

_Her._

_I want to be with her_.

“Yes,” he says at last. “I do. But… I don’t know how.”

Felix reaches over and pats Leonard’s arm.

“What you need,” he says, “is a _plan_.”


	27. Jim

From the foot of the hospital bed, he picks up her blue dressing gown.

It was just a week ago that he carefully packed it into an overnight bag and brought it to the hospital. He was just back from lunch when he got the call, some woman with a nasally Brooklyn accent telling him _, yuh wife, Carol, she’s heah at New Yawk Presbyterian… sir? Sir?_

He must’ve said _what?_ a dozen times during the phone call, not because he didn’t hear what she said, but because he simply didn’t understand what had happened. He hung up the phone and mumbled something about a family emergency to one of the secretaries before leaving the office. When the icy wind off the East River hit him, he realized he’d run out without even taking his coat or hat.

At the hospital information desk, a nurse gave directions to the maternity ward and he took the stairs rather than wait for an elevator. He took the stairs two-by-two, without stopping. Under his fear and anxiety, he found something thrilling, exciting. He felt… _alive_. He didn’t want to know what kind of person would feel that way.

He found Carol lying in a bed. Next to her, a dark bottle hung from a pole, a line snaking down to her pale arm. He never thought he was squeamish about blood but he found himself filled with an unnamable terror. 

As he stood there, frozen, he felt a nurse touch his arm.

“Mister Kirk?” she asked. “Doctor Boyce would like to speak with you.”

She led him out of the room, and gestured toward a bench where he could sit and wait. In a few minutes, an older looking doctor with a clipboard approached and introduced himself.

“Mister Kirk,” he began, looking at the clipboard. “We believe your wife experienced a spontaneous abortion. Had she discussed with you that she may have been pregnant?”

“Pregnant?” Jim said. “No… she said nothing to me.”

“That’s not uncommon. First-time mothers very rarely recognize the earliest symptoms.” The doctor flipped a page over and kept talking. Jim nodded as the man spoke but he only heard bits and pieces. _Uterine tissue. Secondary infection. Lost a lot of blood_.

“Still, no need for concern.” The doctor scribbled something down before handing the clipboard back to a nurse. “She’ll be right as rain in no time. No reason you two can’t have another whenever you like.”

“Would you like to see her now?” the nurse asked. 

“Yes, please,” he said. He thanked the doctor then followed the nurse back into Carol’s room. She pulled a chair up to the bedside.

“She’ll be here a few days,” the nurse said. “So she’d probably like some of her things from home.”

“Like what?” Jim asked, sinking into the chair.

“Oh, like her hairbrush and a nightgown.” The nurse held Carol’s wrist, paused while taking her pulse, then laid Carol’s arm down. “Toothbrush, face cream, that sort of thing. Anything she might take with her on an overnight trip.”

The only time they had ever gone away together was their honeymoon to Niagara Falls. He couldn’t remember anything she brought along.

“Don’t worry too much about it,” the nurse said. “I’m sure she’ll tell you what she wants.” She patted his shoulder lightly and left the room.

He sat and watched her sleep. He’d seen her asleep hundreds of times before but now he felt as if he needed to watch her, to make sure she was still alive. He reached over and took her hand but it was so cold. He set her hand down and touched her wrist gently, forcing himself to act as if she was still the same, like everything was the same.

When she finally woke, he just smiled and waited for her to say something.

“When did you get here?” she asked. “Have I been asleep long?”

“Not very long,” he said. “I got here as quickly as I could.”

“Did they tell you what happened?” she asked.

He nodded. “They said you’ll be fine in no time.” He rubbed the back of her hand briskly, hoping that would reassure her. “The nurse said you’ll be here for a while and you might want some things from home.”

She looked down at her hospital gown as if she were seeing for the first time. “Oh… yes, I suppose so,” she said. “A real nightgown, to begin with.”

“Just write it all down and I’ll get it,” he said.

“I think the nurse hung my handbag on the stand there,” she said. “Could you bring it to me?”

He watched her rummage through the purse, taking out her notebook and a pencil. When she began to write, he asked, “So, you’re… okay now?”

She paused, without looking up the paper. “Yes,” she said. “They did… some kind of procedure to make it stop.”

He tried not to shrink away from her. The thought of doctors prying her open and doing things to her, inside her, made him feel a little sick.

“There,” she said, handing him the list. “That should do it.” She shifted in the bed and he pretended not to see her wince.

“Why don’t I go get these for you right now,” he said. “So you’ll be more comfortable.”

“Oh,” she said softly. “Okay. I guess that would be nice.”

When he got home, he dropped onto the couch and laid there, looking at the ceiling. He realized Carol would probably have to spend both Christmas and New Year’s Eve in the hospital.

_Pretty rotten luck_ , he thought.

Still, though, she was fine, or she would be fine, at least. He didn’t know if he should feel sorry about the baby they weren’t having. He thought maybe he ought to but… he just didn’t. He only felt relieved. 

He took Carol’s list from his pocket and read it over again, then took out a small suitcase and began to fill it with her things.

#

Now, here in the hospital room a week later, he fills her suitcase again: nightgown, magazines, hairbrush, all packed back in.

As he picks up her dressing gown, a slip of paper flutters out of the pocket.

He leans down and picks it up. The note is folded in half and he only sees the last line, in what looks like a man’s handwriting _: I love you. —W._

He unfolds the note and reads it through several times.

_W.?_ he thinks. _Who’s W.?_

A nurse wheels Carol back into the room and he jams the note into his coat pocket. He watches his wife climb out of the wheelchair and for the first time, he wonders if he really knows her at all.

“You’re free to go home whenever you’re ready,” the nurse says.

“Thank you,” Carol says. “For everything.”

The nurse smiles, hands Carol a folder and leaves. Jim stuffs the dressing gown into the suitcase and snaps it shut.

“Is that everything?” Carol asks.

He wants to shove the note in her face. _Who the fuck is W._ , _Carol?_

“That’s everything,” he says, picking up the suitcase. “Let’s go.”

She presses the button for the elevator and they wait. He stares at the elevator doors and runs through every man’s name he can think of beginning with W.

_Will. William. Wilbur._

The doors slide open and they step inside. She presses the button for the ground floor and the elevator lurches down.

_Wayne. Warren. Wendell?_

_Goddammit, who is it?_

Outside, he opens the cab door for Carol to step in. He settles in next to her and tells the driver where to go. She leans her head against the seat and closes her eyes, and he watches her face. 

Once, when he was in the Navy, he saw the aftermath of a volcano that had erupted weeks earlier. The black slopes of lava were smooth and calm, but still blisteringly hot underneath. He feels like that now, like he’s cooling and hardening into something new.

#

At work the next morning, he puts Carol out of his mind. He needs to be at the top of his game today. The higher-ups were still deciding who should get Matthews’s position.

Matthews had seemed like a good guy, but Jim had been quietly suspicious. There was something about the way Matthews looked at him, how he was always just a little too eager to talk, like he could smell something on Jim the other guys couldn’t. Some other guys in the office muttered about Matthews being _a queer_ and Jim always smirked and agreed without saying too much, afraid of giving something away.

Then, one Monday morning, everyone arrived for work except Matthews. His office was cleared out. His secretary was reassigned to the general pool. No one seemed to know what had happened.

“So, that old fag Matthews finally got the boot, I heard,” said Armstrong. Jim and Armstrong shared a tiny office, hardly bigger than a closet.

Jim looked up from his work. “Where’d you hear that?”

“Boss’s secretary,” he said. “Matthews got arrested in a men's room somewhere and I guess word got back to the chief.”

“Huh. How about that,” Jim said, turning back to his work. Matthews’s job came with its own office, a secretary, and a hefty raise, and Jim wanted it.

So when it came time to be interviewed for the job, Jim made a point of mentioning Carol, his wife, and even showed them the photo of her he kept in his wallet. When one of the bosses whistled softly at seeing her, Jim knew he’d set himself apart from anyone like Matthews.

Now, this morning, Jim tries to focus on a report he’s working on, but he can’t stop thinking about who W. might be.

_Whoever he is_ , Jim thinks _, he’s got some balls, showing up at the hospital_ …

He stops, pencil poised above the paper. _The hospital._ He grabs the phone, hoping he can make the call before Armstrong gets back from lunch. He dials up Presbyterian Hospital and asks for the maternity ward. 

“Yes, hello, I was wondering if you could help me out,” Jim says to the nurse on the line. He smiles to make himself sound friendlier. “My wife thought a friend of ours stopped by to visit, but I think those pain killers got the better of her. Do you remember anyone stopping in to see her? Carol Kirk, Room 338?”

“No, sir, not that I can recall,” the nurse says. “If you’ll hold, I’ll ask the other nurses.”

“That would be great, thanks,” Jim says. He hears the nurse set the receiver down and drums his fingers on the desk until she returns.

“Mister Kirk?”

“Yes?”

“I didn’t catch their names,” she says. “But there were two blonde women who came to visit… and a priest. Those were the only visitors I saw.”

“Thank you so much,” Jim says. “You’ve been very helpful.” He hangs up.

_Damn_ , he thinks _. I guess this guy slipped by the nurses without being seen_. He already knew Christine and Janice had driven in to visit and he’d asked Father McCoy to stop by.

Father McCoy.

Father _Leonard_ McCoy.

_No_ , he thinks _. No, no, no… it couldn’t be._

He remembers the last time he was in the confessional, how the priest had grilled him for details, asking Jim, _who was she, how many times did it happen?_

Jim laughs out loud, a mad sounding _ha!_ that slips out before he can stop it.

_Oh, you chump._

Carol— _good, sweet Carol_ —showed this priest the least bit of kindness and the son of a bitch took it all wrong.

Jim shakes his head in disbelief, wondering how he could have suspected Carol when it was this jackass all along. He thinks of what he should do about it. He smiles.

_I’m gonna teach you a lesson, boy_ , he thinks _._

#

For the first time, Jim insists Carol stay home instead of coming to church with him.

“You should rest,” he says. “You still look pale.”

She nods and pulls the dressing gown closer around her. He doesn’t remember seeing her wear it at the hospital, despite the fact she asked him to bring it. If she had, surely she would have just thrown the note away. 

_She probably never read this ridiculous little mash note_ , he thinks. _Good_.

He struggles to keep his expression calm.

“I’ll be home soon,” he says.

#

The liturgy of the Mass drifts past Jim, unheard, until at last it’s over. He keeps one eye on Leonard, as he stands behind the altar, as if the priest might catch on and give him the slip. Most of the congregation files out but he stays and watches the confessionals. He sees Leonard enter one and he springs from the pew before anyone else can reach it.

Inside the booth, his heart pounds, but not with the usual anxiety. The priest slides the window partition back and begins to pray. Jim can barely wait for him to finish.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” he says. “It has been two weeks since my last confession. I accuse myself of the following sins…” He feels himself wanting to grin.

“I engaged in carnal acts with someone other than my wife.”

The man’s face turns stony. Jim silently urges him to ask more, interrogate him, like last time.

“How many acts?” Leonard asks.

In truth, it had been only one. He’d gotten blind drunk on New Year’s Eve and kissed some girl at midnight. They’d slunk off into a dark corner and he’d pushed her hand down into his pants to jerk him off, but he’d been far too drunk to finish.

“You know, I’m… not really sure,” he says. “I _was_ pretty drunk.” Even through the screen, he can see the priest’s jaw working, can almost hear his teeth grinding.

“Why did it happen?” Leonard’s words are precise, clipped.

Jim feels his muscles tense, preparing to spring.

“Oh, I dunno,” he says. “I think I was just _bored_. I guess that’s something you couldn’t really understand, though, is it? But, let me tell you, when you have the same woman in your bed night after night _after night_ … God, it just gets tiresome, the same old bag, over and over. I guess I was just looking for something new, something… exciting.”

“ _Get out_ ,” Leonard hisses.

Jim laughs. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. Get out.”

Jim sees the priest stand up. The confessional door on the other side bangs open. He unlatches his side and steps out.

Leonard stands outside the booth, hands clenching and unclenching by his sides.

Jim pulls the piece of paper from his pants pocket and holds it up for him to see. “That’s right,” he says. “I found your little love note, _Leonard_.”

“Give it to me.” Leonard grabs for it and Jim handily twitches out of the priest’s reach.

“Why should I?” Jim asks. He can see from the corner of his eye that people are starting to take notice. Everything is going to plan. “You know… I don’t think Carol’s even read this yet. Maybe I’ll take it home to her right now so we can have a good laugh about it—”

Leonard’s punch lands squarely on Jim’s jaw and snaps his head back. He feels Leonard yank the paper from his fingers before he can stop him. He touches his lip and sees blood on his fingers. Then he looks at the shocked faces of the parishioners watching them from the other side of the church. 

“You all saw that, right?” he calls out to them. “He hit _me_ first.”

He turns back to Leonard. “You’re pathetic, you know that?” he says. “You only want her because _you can’t have her_. You’ll _never_ have her.” 

Leonard’s eyes narrow and he takes a step closer to Jim.

“Oh, yeah?” he says, softly. “You _sure_ about that?”

Slowly, Jim realizes what he’s just heard.

He feels himself sinking, drowning in icy rage. 

“I’ll _kill you_ , you son of a bitch!”

He lunges and his fist strikes Leonard’s cheek with a brilliant crack. A swarm of priests appears, surrounding them, pulling them apart. Someone behind Jim grabs his arm as cocks his fist back, desperate to smash Leonard’s face again. He thrashes, trying to break away.

Two priests drag him toward the church exit until finally he wrestles himself free.

“I’ll fucking kill you, you hear me!”

He turns and kicks the doors open, and the sound reverberates throughout the church.


	28. Carol

After Jim leaves for church, she sets aside the newspaper and switches on the television. She watches a lot lately. It fills the silence in the empty apartment and inside her head. She escapes easily into whatever she’s watching, engrossed in it, often to the point of tears.

Back in the hospital, Nurse Reade told her this might happen.

Carol was trying to fill out the _New York Times_ crossword puzzle. She filled it out in ink, as she always did at home, but halfway through, she realized she’d answered several clues wrong. She scribbled over her mistakes and tried to correct them. But she had no idea what the right answers were, and suddenly she began to cry.

The nurse brought in lunch just then. Carol wiped her face, unable to look her in the eye.

“Everything okay, Mrs. Kirk?” Nurse Reade asked. She set the tray on the bedside table.

“Yes, I’m sorry,” Carol said. “I don’t know what’s come over me.”

The nurse perched on the edge of the hospital bed.

“When I lost a baby,” the nurse said, “I cried over anything. A broken shoelace. A paper cut. _Queen for a Day_. You ever watch that program?”

Carol shook her head.

“Well, these women come on the show and they talk about their problems, like maybe their child needs a wheelchair and they can’t afford it.” The nurse stood up and parted the curtains. “Then the audience claps hardest for who they think should be ‘queen for a day’ and get whatever they need. I swear, I cried every time I saw it for weeks, months, even.” 

She took Carol’s pulse, then held her wrist a moment longer. “I thought I was going crazy, but it got better, eventually.” She let Carol’s arm go with a reassuring pat. “Took a while, though. Even months later, sometimes I’d think I was fine and then I’d see a baby about the right age and I’d burst into tears right at the butcher counter.”

Carol nodded. Yesterday, she walked by the hospital nursery. She’d stood transfixed, mute, staring at the rows of wrapped newborns behind the glass.

“Thank you,” she said.

“You’re welcome,” said Nurse Reade. “Now, eat your lunch before it goes cold.”

For the rest of Carol’s hospital stay, the nurse gently wove bits of comfort and advice into their conversations, and Carol took it all to heart.

_It might take a bit for your monthly visitor to show up again but don’t worry._

_Don’t take it too hard when your friends say you can always have another baby._

_It’ll all get better eventually._

Now, Carol wishes she’d asked the nurse more. Sometimes she thinks about calling the hospital to speak with her again, but she doesn’t know if she could even ask her questions aloud.

_Did your husband recoil at the sight of you in your hospital bed, Nurse Reade?_

_Did you cry over finding phone numbers in your husband’s pockets? Or did you just feel nothing?_

Carol had found the numbers in one of Jim’s sports coats, one which seemed to especially reek of smoke and sweat. Everything still smelled off to her, though. _Hormones_ , Nurse Reade said _. It’ll pass._ She pulled the jacket from the closet and thought that bringing it to the cleaners would be a welcome errand, just enough to get her out of the house without being too taxing.

She cleaned his pockets: some small change, a loose key, and a few slips of paper. She looked at the odds and ends in her hand. She should have swept them all back into his coat.But for some reason, she opened the scraps of paper, like she needed to see what she already knew. 

_Janet UN 4-1126_

_MU 5-0902 Linda, XOXO_

_Nancy, EN 2-1227. Call me!_

As she stood looking at the phone numbers, she thought she should feel angrier or sadder or… _something_. Instead, she thought, _well, that explains a lot_.

Nurse Reade said her own husband had seemed distant for a while, like he was afraid of her getting pregnant again.

_But he came around eventually_ , she said, and her cheeks went as pink as a schoolgirl’s.

As the nurse told her this, Carol realized she couldn’t remember the last time Jim had touched her. She had been so busy before she ended up in the hospital. _It couldn’t be more than a few weeks, could it?_ she thought. _Not longer?_

Once she was home again, she found herself needing to be near him. She didn’t want him to make love to her but to just be near her, to hold her hand or put an arm around her. But when she got too close, he turned her aside, patting her arm or giving her a peck on the cheek before pulling away.

She thought about what the nurse said, although it didn’t make her any feel any less alone. When she found the phone numbers in his pocket, everything made sense.

_How long has he been doing this?_ she wondered _. Is this why he couldn’t even bear to look at me in the hospital?_ He showed up, asked her if she was okay, and then left again without so much as kissing her goodbye.

Not like Leonard.

When Leonard came to see her, she was feeling dizzy and sick from whatever the nurse had just given her. She didn’t remember what she said, but she knows she cried and she hated herself for letting him see her that way. But he took her hand and quieted her. He sat close and spoke softly, until she fell asleep, and she felt calm and safe for the first time since she arrived at the hospital.

Each time Jim visited, he never got any closer than the little chair next to the bed. Even Christine and Janice had sat closer to her. But not Jim. Not even once.

She put everything back into Jim’s pockets, hoping she remembered which number had come from which pocket. She felt like a snoop, like she was spying on him. She hung the coat back in the closet and shook her head as she looked at it, like a piece of china she dropped.

Now she wonders if he’s even at church right now, or if he was meeting one of these women at this very moment, while she sat here like a fool. But she can’t quite believe that, either. _Not oh-so-Catholic Jim_.

Then, from the back of her mind: _No wonder he’s always going to confession._

In a flash, she swells with anger, not at Jim, but at the church. They probably let him go with a few stern words and a handful of prayers to say and all would be forgiven _. Just like that._ _Like it didn’t even happen. God, how many times has he pulled that trick?_

The phone rings, startling her out of her thoughts. She glances at the clock, wondering who could be calling on a Sunday morning. She picks up the receiver.

“Oh, Carol, thank God. It’s Leonard. Is everything alright?” He sounds out of breath.

“Yes, I-I’m fine,” she says. “What’s going on?”

“Is he there?” he asks.

“Who, Jim? No, he’s not back yet. Why do you—”

“Listen, just stay right there. I’ll be there in about five minutes, okay?”

“What, here? Leonard, what happened?”

“I’ll explain everything when I get there,” he says and the line goes dead.

She barely has time to dress herself before the doorbell buzzes. She presses the button to let him in downstairs, then opens the apartment door to meet him. She watches him run up the stairs, coat flapping around him, and he looks over his shoulder before entering the apartment.

He brushes her hair away from her face, his eyes searching, looking for something.

“Oh, thank God you’re alright,” he says. “I was so worried.”

“Leonard, your face!” His cheek is lurid, split open. She reaches up to touch it and he shies away. “What happened to you?”

“I, uh…” He chuckles weakly. “I got into a fight. With Jim.”

“Jim did this to you?” She touches his cheek cautiously and he lays his hand over hers.

“Yeah, well, I hit him first,” he says with a smirk.

“You _what?_ Why would you do such a thing?”

“He _knows_ , Carol,” he says. “He knows about us.”

She feels the room spinning. “How? _How_ could he know that?”

“My note. Didn’t you get my note?”

“What note?”

He shakes his head. “I left you a note when I came to see you in the hospital. You really didn’t see it?”

“No,” she says. “Why, what did it say?”

He takes a folded slip of paper from his coat pocket. “Just… don’t read it yet, okay?” 

She nods and holds out her hand. He hesitates, then places it in her palm and closes her fingers around it. Then he takes her face in his hands and kisses her.

He gently brushes his thumbs over her cheekbones. “When I saw you in that hospital,” he whispers, “I just… I didn’t know what to do.” He shakes his head like it’s too terrible to remember.

“It’s okay… I’m okay now, see?” She wraps her arms around his waist and sinks into his embrace, nestling into the warmth inside his coat. The heat of him seeps into her, strengthening her and she can’t understand how she survived so much without him.

She tips her face up to look at him. “I’m okay now,” she says.

“Things are going to get better, I promise you,” he says. He looks down and scowls slightly. “You deserve someone better,” he says. 

She stops just before she asks: _But who could be better than you?_

“Better than Jim, you mean.”

Leonard just nods.

A thought begins to coalesce in her head. She takes her arms from around his waist.

“You didn’t tell me why you hit him,” she says.

“I just… I let him get under my skin. It was stupid.” He shakes his head. “ _I_ was stupid. He was trying to tick me off and I walked right into it.”

“What did he say to you?” she asks, feeling herself growing colder.

“I can’t tell you.”

“Can’t? Or won’t?” she asks. “Just tell me what he said to you.”

“I _can’t_ ,” he says. “He told me as his confessor. I can’t tell you what he said, any of it. It’s… against the rules.”

“Against the rules?” she says with a laugh. “Funny, I don’t remember you invoking the rules when you were with me.”

He looks so shocked, so hurt. She wishes she could take it back.

“That’s different,” he says softly. “I made a choice. I broke my own vow. But breaking the seal of the confessional is… it’s sacrilege. Priests can be excommunicated for it.”

She scoffs. “Fine, then just let me guess,” she says. “He confessed to having an affair. Is that it?”

He looks away, refusing to meet her eye.

“How long have you known? Can you at least tell me that? Because I’ve known for at least a couple of days now.” She feels herself welling up and she angrily fights to keep the tears at bay. “How long have you known my husband was whoring around on me without you telling me? Weeks? Months?”

She pauses, feeling like she might be sick. “Have you… have you _always_ known? Right from the start?”

“Jesus, no!” he says. “Don’t you think I would have told you if I could have? Do you think I liked knowing it? You think it didn’t eat away at me inside, not being able to tell you?”

“How could you _keep it_ from me, though?” She wipes her tearful face with shaking hands. He steps towards her and she puts her hands up to stop him.

“Oh, for God’s sake… just _get out_ ,” she says. “He’ll be back any second now and you shouldn’t be here when he is.”

“Carol, he’s furious! It took two priests to drag him out, kicking and screaming.” He puts his hands on her shoulders. “It’s not safe for you to be here. I’m staying with you.”

“And when he comes home and finds both of us, here, together? Do you think that’s not going to make him angry? My God, look at what he’s done to you already!”

“I need to protect you,” he says. “Please.” He takes her face in his hands, but she bats them away.

“And what good will that do? You’ll protect me for maybe an hour or two… and then what? You’ll go home and I’ll still be here?” she asks. 

“So help me God, Carol, if he so much as lays a hand on you—”

“You’re not my husband!” she says. For a moment, the words seem to hang in the air between them.

“I’m sorry,” she says more gently. “But you’re not. You can’t protect me. Jim may be many things, but he's never raised a hand to me.”

“I just want to keep you safe.”

She stands looking at his bruised and bloodied face and she wants only to pull him into her arms and shelter him, shield him—from Jim, from the church, from the world. She knows he could protect her, protect them both, if she let him. But for the first time, she wants to do the same for him. 

She reaches out and gingerly touches his battered face. “I need you to be safe, too.”

_Because I love you._

Each word is like a single note, forming a chord that reverberates inside her. She has to swallow hard to keep it inside.

He tilts his head, leaning into her touch. She takes a deep breath.

_I can do this,_ she thinks. _I can protect us both._

“I won’t stay here, okay?” she says. “I’ll spend a couple days in a hotel until everything is calm again.” His shoulders slump with relief.He pulls her close and kisses her neck, hiding his face there.

“Will you call me when you get there?” he asks. “So I know you’re alright?”

“Of course,” she whispers. “But please, go now, before it’s too late.”

He looks at her and she sees so much pain and worry on his face. They walk to the apartment door, hand in hand. She opens it and he steps through, still holding onto her.

“At the bottom of the stairs, there’s a door on your right,” she says, keeping watch just over his shoulder. “Go in there and get out through the basement, to the alleyway out back. If he’s on his way home, he won’t see you.”

“Things will get better soon,” Leonard says. “Real soon. I… I promise you that.”

She nods. “Please be careful,” she says.

“You, too.”

He kisses her hard then he turns and walks down the stairs. She stands in the hallway, straining to hear his footsteps, ready to sprint down the stairs and intervene the instant she hears an argument. When she hears the basement door bang shut, she knows he’s safe. For now.

She closes the apartment door and goes to the bedroom. Her overnight bag still holds most of her things from the hospital. She takes her toothbrush and a comb from the bathroom, adds a dress and a change of underthings. Her mind is quiet, still, and her body moves without her thinking.

She still sees the bruise on Leonard’s cheek. She told him that Jim never raised a hand to her. _He never has,_ he thinks _, but would he?_ She doesn’t believe he would. But just a few days ago, she also thought he would never lie to her face and screw around on her.

She latches the suitcase shut and puts on her coat. She takes a look around the empty apartment and wonders if she should leave a note. What would she say?

Instead, she goes to the closet and gets the phone numbers still sitting in his coat pocket. She unfolds the bits of paper and lays them out on the table.

_Oh, Sunny Jim_ , she thinks.

She locks the door behind her when she leaves.

#

By the time she makes it to her room at the Martha Washington Hotel, her body aches and her head is pounding.

She took a cab to the Barbizon first, but they only had the most expensive rooms available. She walked the half-dozen blocks down to 57th Street, but the Allerton House and the American Woman’s Club were filled to capacity with young co-eds, looking for a bit of fun in the city before classes started. She got on the subway and found her way to the Martha Washington, and gratefully accepted whatever room they could offer. She kept her wedding band on but gave them her unmarried name and she didn’t have the energy to correct the clerk who called her _Mrs. Marcus_.

She opens the door to her hotel room and finds it clean but small: just a bed, a tiny writing desk, and a chest of drawers. She sets her suitcase down and sits on the bed, slipping off her shoes and examining a hole in her stockings. When she tries to remember if she packed herself another pair, the weight of what she’s done slams down upon her.

She looks around the room as if waking from a dream.

_I can’t just walk out on my marriage like that,_ she thinks. _Can I?_

She just wants a normal life again. A safe, ordinary, normal life. She remembers seeing a pay phone at the end of the hall, to tell Jim where she is. She thrusts her hands into her dress pockets, looking for a dime for the phone, and instead, she pulls out a piece of paper.

_A. —_

_I think I know what you wanted to tell me._

_Please come see me as soon as you’re feeling better._

_I love you._

_— W._

She stares. Her vision films with tears as she stares at the words Leonard penciled there, so simple and so plain. 

_I love you. — W._

She suddenly remembers the day she arrived in New York, how she left her suitcase in her new dormitory room then rode the subway all the way down to Times Square by herself. When she stepped out of the 42nd Street station, she stood and stared, while people walked around her.

_This is my home now_ , she thought. She looked around, at the cabs and the signs and the neon lights, and was filled with terror and joy, like she was standing at the top of a precipice and peering over the edge.

Now she looks at the note and feels that way again.

Afraid.

Elated.

Home.

“Why didn’t you just _tell_ me?” she asks aloud. She laughs and wipes her face with her sleeve.

She takes some change from her purse then runs down the hallway in her stocking feet. She shuts herself in the phone booth, pushes a handful of dimes into the slot and asks the operator to connect her to the Notre Dame rectory.

The line starts to ring and she puts a hand on her chest, trying to quiet her booming heart. _I have to tell him_ , she thinks _. I have to tell him right now._

The phone rings more than a dozen time before a gruff man answers.

“May I speak to Father McCoy, please?” she asks, trying to keep her voice calm and even.

“Father McCoy… is no longer with us at the rectory,” the man says. “He’s taken an unexpected leave of absence until further notice… hello? Are you still there?”

She snaps back to attention. “I’m sorry… did he leave a forwarding address? Or maybe a telephone number?”

“No, he did not,” he says. “And whom, may I ask, is calling? Hello?”

She gently hangs the receiver back in its cradle. Some coins clatter out.

She sits in the phone booth and thinks of him, summoning the version of him that lives in her head. She asks him when things will get better. But he just touches her face and says he doesn’t know.


	29. Jim

“If you weren’t interested in having fun with me,” the redhead says, “you could have just said so. I’m a big girl.”

Jim rubs his gritty eyes and takes a minute to determine where he is. _Chekov's house_ , he decides. There was a girl with him last night, a brunette, not this one talking to him now. He squints in the early morning light, streaming in through a tall window.

“Gaila, right?” 

“That’s right,” she says. “Your girl already left. Charlene, I think?”

“She’s not—” His throat feels like it’s on fire. “She’s not my girl.”

Gaila shrugs. “You told me you were married,” she says.

“I am married,” he says.

In his head, he hears the priest’s voice again: _You sure about that?_

#

He’d stormed out of the church and stepped straight into the first bar he found on Broadway. He just needed a minute to _think_ before he went home.

He took up a barstool and ordered a highball. The place was nearly empty, just a few sorry-looking types holding their first drinks of the day with trembling hands.

The bartender brought Jim’s drink and pointed to his face. “Hey buddy,” he said. “Your lip’s bleedin’.”

Jim swiped at his mouth with his thumb.

“Hang on,” the bartender said. He reached under the bar and got a towel. He ran it under the tap and handed it to Jim. “Don’t worry, it’s clean.”

Jim pressed the cold cloth to his face. “Thanks,” he said.

He watched as the bartender went back to work, wiping down the bar, polishing glasses. Most people, he always believed, were like this bartender. They were _good_. Sure, there would always be a few bad apples, but on the whole, people were decent. He took the towel from his face and examined the blood there. In his mind, he still saw the priest’s face, how his eyes narrowed and the corner of his mouth twisted into a sneer.

_He’s lying_ , Jim thought. _He has to be_.

It was the only answer that made any sense to him. The priest must’ve fallen in love with Carol and built some crazy fantasy world around her. That had to be it.

_Because she wouldn’t… right? With him?_

He rubbed his eyes for a second and pictured her, naked in some shabby bed, her lips parted, her eyes closed, her arms around the bare back of another man. He opened his eyes again and saw his own stunned face staring back at him from the mirror behind the bar.

He waved the bartender over and ordered another drink.

The bar slowly began to fill, first a few students, then a bunch of blue-collar guys. Some kid dropped a dime into the jukebox and The Kingston Trio started to sing.

_Hang down your head, Tom Dooley. Hang down your head and cry._

_Hang down your head, Tom Dooley. Poor boy, you're bound to die._

He thought about going back to the church’s rectory. He could lie in wait for the priest, then beat the truth out of him. Jim liked this idea, liked the way it made his blood pound. He drained his third drink and signaled for another.

The noise of the bar started to rise and Jim found it harder to think. He settled his tab and thanked the bartender again, then put on his coat and hat and went out. He intended to walk to the rectory but his feet automatically took him towards home. He didn’t realize it until he rounded the corner and saw his own building looming before him.

_I’ll go straight in there and ask her myself,_ he decided. He’d ask and she’d tell him the truth. Probably. He fumbled with his keys until he got the door open. He thought back to a year or so ago when she organized a surprise birthday party for him. He asked her just a few questions and figured out her plan, long before it was supposed to happen.

_Good old Carol,_ he thought. _Can’t tell a lie worth a damn_. 

This was perfect. She’d probably be so horrified to hear what the guy said, she’d march down to the rectory to tell him off herself. He could picture it now.

He’d only seen her really angry a few times in their marriage. One time he found her threatening to call the police on the rowdy tenants below them. He almost didn’t recognize her. She stood at the neighbor’s door with her feet planted firmly apart, like a boxer’s. Her voice was low and furious. _If I hear another noise, I shall personally see to it that you are forcibly evicted from this building. Do I make myself clear?_ He had pulled her away before she could say more but hot damn, the sight of her all worked up like that.

He jammed his keys into the deadbolt on their door on the third try, and he laughed at the thought of her unleashing that righteous fury on the priest.

He let himself into their apartment. It was silent.

“Carol?” he called out.

The newspaper she’d been reading lay folded on the couch. He found her coffee cup in the sink, unwashed. He walked through the silent apartment to the bedroom, certain he would find her sleeping there. The bed was neatly made, empty.

_She must’ve just gone out. Maybe she went looking for me._

_I’ll just wait._

He got a beer from the fridge, brought it back to the living room. When he sat on the couch, he saw some slips of paper on the coffee table flutter in the draft he created. He picked one up, and slowly read the name and phone number on it. He looked at them all.

_I didn’t… shit, I wasn’t really going to call them. Jesus._

She must've found them in his pocket and laid them out for him to find. But he _didn't_ call them. He wasn't _ever_ going to call them. He crushed the phone numbers in his fist.

_She knows,_ he thinks. _She knows about this. Jesus, what else does she know?_

He threw the wadded phone numbers across the room, then cleared the coffee table with one sweep from the back of his hand. Magazines flew to the floor, the ashtray shattered.

“Fuck!”

Somewhere down the hall, a dog began to yap.

_Maybe she’s gone_ , he thought.

_Oh my God, this time… maybe she’s really gone._

He leapt from the couch and went to the bedroom, desperate for evidence that would prove him wrong. He fumbled through her underwear drawer. The diaphragm was still there but it didn’t put his mind at ease. The little suitcase he’d taken to the hospital was gone.

He looked for the case under the bed and in the hall closet, thinking surely she must have just emptied it and put it away. He went into the bathroom to check the linen closet, and there by the sink, sat just one toothbrush. His. 

He stood looking at it for a moment, in its little cup next to the tube of Ipana toothpaste. He even nudged the toothbrush aside, as if her own might have been hiding behind it.Then he went back to the sofa and sat there, watching his distorted reflection on the television’s dark screen. 

He tried to think of a way he could still fix this somehow. He would make it up to her. They could move, out to the suburbs, maybe. They’d buy a car and a house with a yard. They’d have a kid, if that’s what she really wanted.

They could start over.

He put the magazines back on the table and swept up the broken ashtray. He examined the shards of it before dumping it in the trash, the biggest piece reading : IAGARA FAL .

He looked around the room, hoping to find a note saying where she’d gone. He searched her desk. It didn’t yield any clues to where she might be, but he did find her address book. He picked up the phone and called Christine.

“Hi, Jo… it’s Jim,” he said. “Uh, listen, I’m sure it’s nothing, but have you heard from Carol today?”

“Oh my God, Jim,” she said. “No, what happened? I haven’t heard anything from her.”

“No, no, no. I’m sure she’s fine,” he said. “We just, um, we had a disagreement.”

“Oh,” she said. “Okay, well… look, maybe she went to a hotel or something. I’m sure she’ll call you as soon as she calms down.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, you’re probably right. I’ll… just wait.”

“I’ll let you know if I hear from her, though,” she said.

“I know you will,” he said. “Thanks.”

After he hung up, he thumbed through the telephone directory, looking for any dog-eared pages, any hotels she might have circled. He found a page with its corner folded, the listing for the church’s rectory. He had a feeling in his gut, a terrible hunch. He dialed the rectory’s number. When someone answered, he asked to speak to Father McCoy, then waited for him to come to the phone.

Finally, a voice whispered: "Carol?" 

“Where is she?” Jim said, gripping the receiver _._

He heard the other man scoff. “Somewhere safe, that’s all you need to know.”

“Where is my wife?”

“She didn’t tell me where she was going,” the priest said. “And even if she did, why would I—”

Jim slammed the phone down. 

“That bitch, that… bitch!” he muttered.

_Was it true, then? What the priest said?_

He dragged his hands over his face.

_Jesus, did she… with him?_

In his head, he heard his mother. _See? God’s punishing you for what you’ve done._ She was never religious, but she always seemed to believe in divine retribution. Most often, she said it to him fondly. He’d mouth off to her then, moments later, he’d trip over his own gangly adolescent feet and she’d laugh. _See? God’s punishing you for being so fresh to your mother._ But he didn’t hear her easy laugh in his head this time.

_The hell with this,_ he thought. _If I’m being punished, I’m going to make it worth my while_. He grabbed his coat and went downtown to Chekov’s place.

#

Now, the next morning, he tries to piece together what happened, but long stretches of the night are just gone.

“What time is it?” he asks.

“Close to nine,” Gaila says.

Jim’s stomach drops. He’d never get home, shower, change, and make it to work on time. He gets up from the couch, every joint in his body protesting. He sways and tries to steady himself.

“Any idea if there’s a phone around here I could use?” he asks.

“Sure,” she says. “Come on.”

She leads him out of Chekov’s apartment and up a flight of steep stairs. As he climbs, he grips the railing and tries to focus on each step. She opens a door into a large, sunny room. She hurries to the window and draws down the shade.

“Better?” she asks.

“Much,” he says. “Thanks.” The room is cold and he notices there are canvases leaning against every wall.

“Phone’s over here,” she says. “It’s a party line, so you might have to hang on a second.”

She picks up the receiver and listens for a moment, muffling one end with her hand. She rolls her eyes then uncovers the mouthpiece.

“Mrs. Zwitman?” she asks. For a minute or two, she speaks a language that’s guttural and dense to Jim’s ear. “Okay, bye-bye,” she says, then hangs up. “You’ve got about ten minutes.”

“What was that, German?” he asks, taking the phone from her.

“Yiddish,” she says. She leaves the room, and he hears her opening and closing some kitchen cupboards.

He dials the number for his office. He tells one of the secretaries he’s come down with a cold and won’t make it in today. She tells him she hopes he feels better. He thanks her and hangs up. Then he calls home. The line goes on ringing until he gives up.

He peeks at the canvases against the wall near him. They’re bright and abstract. He isn’t really sure whether he’d consider them art or not, but he finds a few of them strangely compelling. He reads a typewritten label on the back of one: STEAM by Gaila de Vert.

“Here,” she says, handing him a glass of water and a bottle of aspirin. “Like that one? It’s yours for 75 dollars.”

He whistles softly. “Too rich for my blood,” he says. “ _Gaila de Vert?_ That supposed to be you?”

She shrugs. “People like a little… eccentric flair to go with their art,” she says, waving her hands. “And ‘Gaila de Vert’ sells more than ‘Gailaam Greenbaum’. Not much more, mind you, but some.”

He takes two aspirin and hands the bottle back. She waits for him to swallow them, then takes back the empty glass as well. She sets them both on a table and she walks to the door, taking a coat from a peg.

“Where you headed?” he asks.

“Breakfast,” she says. “Your treat.” She opens the door, and gestures for him to walk through.

#

He drops a nickel into the slot, pulls the knob, and takes out a cheese danish. The he fills a cup with steaming black coffee from the elaborate silver spout and carries it to the table where Gaila’s sitting.

She peers over at his plate. “No, see, that won’t do,” she says. “Here.” She takes his food and replaces with it her own: two fried eggs with buttered toast. “You need something that’ll soak up all that booze left in you.”

He loads his coffee with sugar and stirs. The smell of it roils his stomach but he hopes it will stop the pounding in his head.

“So… you married or not?” she asks.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters as he puts his head in his hands. 

“Seems like a pretty simple, yes-or-no question to me,” she says.

“I am,” he says. “But… I think my wife’s left me. Maybe for someone else.”

“Tough break, kid,” she says. “I don’t mean to rub it in, but, y’know, maybe what goes around, comes around?”

He shakes his head, too sick to argue.

“I’m sorry I brought it up,” she says. “Come on, eat already.”

He starts with the toast, and when he’s sure that that’ll stay down, he moves on to the eggs. Gaila polishes off the danish then goes back to the counter, and he watches her as she navigates the crowded automat. He can’t remember the last time he’d been so drunk, with vast stretches of the night lost to him. She returns with stewed peaches, griddle cakes, and fried bacon.

“You want the bacon?” she asks. Before he can refuse, she’s already pushed it onto his plate.

“Thanks,” he says. The bacon is crisp and salty. He feels better but he can’t bring himself to admit her advice about eating had been right.

She rests her elbows on the table, holding her coffee cup and eyeing him in silence.

“Are you just not into redheads,” she says. “Or… what?”

“No, it’s not that. You’re—” He looks her over. The morning light brings out the freckles on her face and the smudges of paint on the man’s shirt she wears. She raises her eyebrows. He shrugs.

“You’re okay,” he finishes.

“Well, gosh,” she says, with a smirk. “I’m flattered.”

“It wasn’t you, is all,” he says.

He watches her polish off the last of a pancake. He thinks about telling her the whole story. He wants to explain that he loved going home to Carol every Friday night, no matter what else he got up to. But now Carol was bored with him or maybe just didn’t love him the way she used to, and he decided there wasn’t anything to go home for. And then she was sick, and then he found that note and now… he doesn’t even know where she is. But he can’t decide if Gaila would just say he deserved what he got. He can’t say why, but he needs her to be on his side.

He watches her dab her mouth with a paper napkin then she reaches over and grabs his wrist. She looks at his watch and frowns.

“I gotta go,” she says. “I can’t be late for work again.”

“I thought you were an artist,” he says.

She laughs. “And you think that pays the rent?” She buttons up her coat. “I’ll see you around, though.” She ruffles his hair and takes off before he can say anything. He turns and watches her walk away.

_So long_ , he thinks.

He gets another cup of coffee and picks up a newspaper someone left behind. He reads every story, until the automat starts to fill with office workers on their lunch hour. He goes to the movies and sits through _Attack of the 50 Foot Woman_ and then _The 7th Voyage of Sinbad_. When he gets outside again, it’s already dark. He squeezes into an uptown train at rush hour, as he always does at this time of day. He thinks about buying himself dinner out somewhere, but he knows he’ll have to go home eventually.

He can hear the phone ringing as he scrambles to get the door open. He grabs the receiver mid-ring.

“Hello?” he gasps.

“Jim, it’s Christine.”

“Oh… hi,” he says. “Did you hear from Carol?”

“Yes. I did,” she says crisply. “She’s staying at a hotel.”

“Which hotel?”

She pauses. “Just… a hotel.”

He rubs his forehead, feeling his headache return.

“Jo,” he says. “Listen—”

“No, _you_ listen,” she hisses. “I don’t know what you’ve been playing at but you’d better knock it off if you know what’s good for you.”

“Oh, that’s… that’s really rich,” he says. “I don’t suppose she told you the whole story, did she? She tell you the part where I found a love note addressed to her from our priest?”

He waits a moment for her to reply.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “I didn’t think so.”

“Look, don’t put me in the middle of this, Jim,” she says. “She wanted me to tell you she’s at a hotel and she’ll call you when she’s ready. Whatever else happens, just keep me out of it. Both of you.”

“Yeah, swell,” he says.

He hears her sigh.

“Just… give her a couple of days,” she says gently. “She’ll come to her senses and then she’ll be back. Just don’t screw it up.”

After he hangs up, he sits on the couch and lights a cigarette. He looks for the ashtray that’s always there. Then he remembers that he shattered it, and now it’s gone.


	30. Carol

Christine is running late. Carol can’t remember her ever being late. She startles when the waiter appears at her shoulder and refills her water glass for the second time. He apologizes, and she smiles and apologizes too. She’s not sure why but she feels like a little girl who’s about to be reprimanded. She folds and refolds the napkin in her lap.

_What business is it of hers, anyway?_ she thinks. _She’s not the one married to a man who’s doing God-knows-what when her back is turned._

She moves the salad fork a fraction of an inch to the left and then checks her watch. She’ll just tell Christine she’s in love with Leonard and that will be that.

_If I could just hear from him._

It’s been weeks but she hasn’t dared to call the rectory again. She checks her mailbox at the university nearly every hour. When she returns to her hotel each night, she asks the desk clerk if she has any messages. She scans every face in every crowd, always looking for him. 

_Where are you?_ she thinks.

“Sorry I’m late,” Christine says as Carol looks up. “The train was delayed and it took ages. I should have just driven but…” She waves her hand, brushing away the details like imaginary flies. She settles into her seat.

Carol smiles. “Don’t worry about it,” she says. “I’ve only just arrived a few minutes ago.”

“God, I haven’t been here in ages,” Christine says, looking around. “My mother used to bring me here when I was a kid before we’d go shopping.”

“How is your mother these days?” Carol asks.

“Oh, the same as ever. Crazy. She thinks the new neighbors hate her because she's German and the husband lost a leg in the war. I keep telling her, _no one cares about that anymore, Ma_ , but she’s convinced.”

Carol just nods, never quite sure how to respond to Christine’s complaints about her family. She’s relieved when the waiter comes by to take their orders and she asks for the tuna salad.

“I’ll have the _kalbsnierenbraten_ , please,” Christine says. The waiter leaves. She lights a cigarette. “Gene’s so picky. He hates veal, he hates kidneys. He hates even seeing them. At least today I get to have both while he’s not around.”

She smirks, pleased with herself, and taps the ash from her cigarette into the tray.

“So,” she says, her voice dropping. She edges her chair forward and Carol resists the urge to lean back, away. “What are you doing at the Martha Washington?”

“Not much, really,” Carol says. “Reading, mostly. I finally read that Kerouac book but I don’t—”

“ _Carol_.”

“What?”

“Don’t ‘what’ me,” Christine says. “I mean, when are you going _home_?”

“Who said anything about going home? And why does this all matter so much to you?”

Christine exhales a stream of smoke, like a blonde dragon. 

“I just want to help you,” she says. “You’ll have to go home sometime, won’t you?”

“I go home when he’s at work to pick up clothes and things. The rest…” Carol shrugs. She doesn’t admit she’s already cherry-picked the things she cares most about: her bottle of Fracas, books with meaningful inscriptions, an envelope full of photos.

“So you’re just going to… live on your own, like some career girl? Won’t you miss Jim?”

“I don’t know. Maybe,” Carol says. “Sometimes I do miss him, but I… I think I miss who he used to be.”

Christine reaches over and pats Carol’s hand. “Oh, honey,” she says. “That’s just how it is. You can’t expect him to be the same person he was when you married him.”

Carol pulls her hand away. “Well, I didn’t expect that I married a cheater,” she says.

Christine stubs out her cigarette. “According to him, he’s not the only one who’s been fooling around.”

Carol feels her face flush. “Once,” she says. “It happened once.”

Christine shrugs. “Well, it must have been spectacular,” she says, “if once was enough to walk out on your marriage.”

_Maybe it was_ , Carol wants to say. _Not that it’s any of your business_.

“So, who was it then?” Christine asks.

“It’s not important.”

“Sure it is,” Christine says. “Is it… who Jim thinks it is?”

“Leonard,” she says. It feels important, somehow, to finally say his name aloud to another person. “His name is _Leonard_.”

“And he is, or was, your…” Christine mouths the word _priest_ as if it were unspeakable, like _cancer_.

Carol nods.

“So, you’re going to just chuck it all for a man you can never be with?”

“I… don’t know.”

Carol’s thought about this very thing, night after night, alone in her hotel room. He would have to divorce himself from the church as much as she would have to divorce Jim. He would have to leave everything, his whole life, for her.

_What if he says no?_ she's been asking herself. _What if he's already changed his mind?_

The waiter appears and sets dishes in front of them. They fall silent for a moment while they eat.

Christine saws at a piece of meat. “Carol, I’m going to be blunt with you,” she says. “Don’t you think maybe this man only wants you because he can’t really have you? I mean, you are the forbidden fruit. So to speak.”

Carol puts a forkful of salad into her mouth, buying herself time while she chews. She thinks about the night she spent with him, how he asked her _why me?_ She never thought to ask him the same.

Christine folds her hands, waiting for an answer.

“It’s possible,” Carol says. “But I just don’t think that’s the case.”

“I mean…” Christine glances around. “Has he even _been_ with a girl besides you?” she whispers.

“Not that it matters,” Carol says, “but he has.”

“All I’m saying is, you both might be after something you can’t have. Is he going to leave… his Christineb?”

“I don’t know.”

“Can he even get another Christineb?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, what _do_ you know, Carol?” Christine asks gently.

She thinks of his note, tucked safely into her wallet, like a form of identification.

“I love him, Christine,” she says. “And… he loves me.” 

Christine shakes her head. “Oh, honey, that’s swell. But love doesn’t put a roof over your head or put clothes on your back.”

“I… have money,” she says. “Or I will once I get the rest of my inheritance later this year. We could get by.”

“What kind of man wants to let his wife support him?” Christine asks. “Assuming he even wants to be married to a divorced woman… had you thought about that?”

Carol pushes food around on her plate for a moment and then sets her fork down.

Christine shakes her head. “Divorcees can’t get married in the church. Don’t you think he might, you know, want that?”

“I don’t…” Carol swallows hard. “I don’t know.”

“I don’t want to upset you, I really am just trying to help,” Christine says. “But it seems like there’s an awful lot you don’t know.”

Carol nods.

“Shouldn’t you should at least _try_ to fix things with Jim?” Christine asks. “At least give him a second chance. Doesn’t he deserve at least that much?”

“Maybe. I don’t know.” She wants to protest, to repeat that Leonard loves her, like a child insisting she doesn’t want to go home from the party.

“You’d be doing the right thing. I think part of you knows that,” Christine says. She sighs and then lights another cigarette. “You know… I think I saw apple strudel on the dessert menu,” she says. “Would you split it with me?”

Carol shakes her head. “No, excuse me,” she says. “I’ll be right back.”

She grabs her handbag and walks across the restaurant, hoping Christine doesn’t follow. In the ladies room, she sinks into an ugly upholstered chair and buries her face in her hands.

_Oh God, she’s right,_ Carol thinks. _I should just go home. What am I even doing?_

She hears someone coming and she hurries to lock herself into a stall. Carol listens as someone comes into the restroom and latches herself in the stall next to her. The woman hums under her breath and the tune is familiar but she can’t place it. Carol tries to pull herself together, waiting for the other woman to leave.

When she does, Carol looks at herself in the mirror. Her face is blotchy and her eyes are red. She takes out a compact and tries to hide the damage. She pats powder on her cheeks but fresh tears roll right through it.

_If you love me, then where are you?_ she thinks.

She gets a tissue from her purse and dries her eyes again.

Christine opens the door and steps in, and Carol snaps the compact shut and puts it away.

“I paid the check,” Christine says. “So we can go whenever you’re ready. I brought your coat. Here.” Carol takes it. “Your face is a wreck, though. Come here, look up.”

Christine takes a handkerchief from her pocket and rubs under Carol’s eyes.

“Do you remember when I taught you how to put on mascara?” Christine asks. “When we were first roommates?”

Carol smiles a little. “You told me I was doing it all wrong. I was a little afraid of you.”

“Well, I thought you were prettier than me, so I didn’t want to be your friend at first. Compact?”

“In my purse.”

Christine picks up the little case and powders Carol’s nose. She sighs. “I know you’ve been through a lot lately,” she says.“What with... being in the hospital and all. I just wouldn’t want you to do anything rash.”

She brushes a bit of powder from Carol’s jaw. “Jim loves you, sweetie,” she says. “Go home. Okay? I’m sure he misses you.” She tucks her arm under Carol’s and draws her away from the lavatory mirror. “Let’s go,” she says.

#

When the cab pulls up to the Martha Washington, Christine insists on paying for it.

“You’ll think about what I said, right?” she asks. “I’m sure he’ll just be so glad you’re back.” Her mouth smiles ,  but her eyes do not.

Carol nods. “Thank you for lunch,” she says.

“Oh, anytime. I just wish we had more time to spend together. If only you lived closer. Maybe someday, right?” she asks.

“Of course.” Carol kisses Christine’s cheek. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Carol gets out of the cab and doesn’t look back. 

When she gets into her hotel room, she sits on the bed and kicks off her shoes. In the room next to hers, she hears girls laughing and music playing. The hotel was more than a little like her old dormitory ,  where she and Christine were roommates. Girls wander the halls in pajamas and curlers, strolling in and out of each other’s rooms. Sometimes the acrid smell of burnt bread fills the hallway and she smirks to herself, knowing someone’s tried toasting a sandwich with a clothes iron, just as she’d once done. _It’s the butter,_ she wants to tell them. _You need to use more butter._

Each morning Carol got up, got dressed, and went to Columbia. Every night, she came back to this room and went to bed alone. To these girls, this hotel _was_ home. But not to her.

_What am I still doing here?_ she asks herself. _How much longer am I going to wait for someone who may not even want me anymore?_

She puts her shoes back on.

#

She lets herself into their apartment and hangs up her coat. She looks at it hanging next to one of Jim’s. She slips her hand into his pockets but doesn’t find anything.

She moves a pile of newspapers off the couch and sits down. All the other times that she snuck in like a thief to get her clothes or books, she never paid attention to the disarray. She brushes crumbs and cigarette ash from the coffee table. She looks for the ashtray but doesn’t find it, so she sweeps the mess into her hand and throws it away.

The phone rings. She hesitates, as if she doesn’t live there. She waits for it to stop but it goes on ringing and suddenly she thinks it must be Leonard. She imagines an invisible thread leading away from her phone, across the rooftops of the city, and up into the phone in his hand. She walks over to the phone and lays her hand on it. All she has to do is answer.

She reaches behind the phone and pulls the cord from the wall. Everything is quiet again.

In the kitchen, she washes a stack of dirty dishes and sweeps the floor. She strips the sheets off the bed and makes it up again with clean ones. She puts fresh towels in the bathroom. She tidies the living room but still doesn’t find the ashtray. She gets another from under the kitchen sink and sets it on the coffee table. She doesn't stop until everything is in order again.

Then she waits. The room grows dark. She switches on a light and continues to sit.

Just before seven, she hears a jingle of keys as Jim unlocks the door. She doesn’t get up to greet him. She doesn’t even turn around to look. She arranges her dress over her knees. She hears a soft gasp from behind her.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you here,” he says gently. “Or I would have come straight home.”

“I should have called,” she says.

“No,” he says. “No, no, of course not. I’m just surprised, is all.”

He sits next to her on the couch. He places his hand next to hers, his little finger barely grazing her own.

“So… you’re back?” he asks.

She folds her hands in her lap and studies them.

“I’m back,” she says.

#

That night, she doesn’t ask him if he’s ready to go to sleep. She just gets up from where they have been watching television in silence and goes to the bedroom to dress for bed. She brushes her teeth and washes her face, and a small part of her is glad to be back in her own bathroom again. She thinks of all the things she’ll need to bring back from her hotel room tomorrow. She turns off the light and gets into bed.

In a few minutes, she hears Jim come into the room but she doesn’t open her eyes. She hears the clink of his belt buckle and the soft shuffling sound of him undressing. The bed creaks as he climbs in. He inches closer and she listens to her own breathing, keeping it slow and steady, feigning sleep. She waits for him to say something, _I’m sorry_ or _I love you_ or _I missed you_. He slips an arm around her waist and she waits to feel something, anything, but nothing comes.

When she falls asleep, she dreams of being in an impossibly long subway car, stretching out on either side of her for what seems like miles. On her lap, she holds a rabbit. Each time the train lurches, she tries to keep the rabbit from scrambling away. There’s a commotion in the distance. People are shouting. One end of the subway car is on fire. Passengers begin running past, panicking, pushing, and she gets swept up into the crowd. She glances back and sees the rabbit still sitting on the bench. Then she wakes up.

Her heart is pounding. For a minute, she doesn’t remember where she is, until Jim snores softly next to her. She slips out of bed and goes to the kitchen for a glass of water. The linoleum floor is cold under her feet. She can still picture the rabbit looking back at her. She stands at the sink, telling herself, _it isn’t real, it was never real_.

As she passes through the living room on her way back to bed, she pauses. She gets down on her knees and pushes the prongs of the telephone jack back into the wall. She picks up the receiver and cradles it between her ear and shoulder, listening to its empty hum.


	31. Leonard

When his alarm clock rings, he shuts it off. He knows by now that in a few minutes the radiator will start to clank and hiss, making his drafty room something close to warm, and he nestles down deeper into the blankets. He waits, wondering what the day has in store for him, if today will be the day he hears from Carol. 

He took the long way home that night. He studied every man that passed him, seeing if any of them were Jim. He didn’t want to start trouble, but there was still a small part of him that hoped they’d finally get to finish what they’d started. His hand still ached nicely from when he’d punched Jim. 

He made it back to the rectory without incident, but Felix grabbed him the moment he stepped through their door. He took one look at Leonard’s face and hustled him into the pantry.

“Don’t say a word,” Felix snapped as he shut Leonard in. They stood in the dimly lit space, surrounded by canned goods and bags of flour. He peered through the slats of the louvered door but saw nothing but the empty kitchen beyond. His head hurt and he cautiously ran his fingertips over the bruise on his cheekbone. He could still almost feel Carol’s hand there, cool and soft.

He heard footsteps. It was Felix, carrying a raw steak.

“Here,” he said. “Get that on you before it’s too late.” He closed the pantry door. Leonard cringed as he pressed the cold meat to his cheek.

“Thanks… I think,” he said.

“What the hell happened, Len? Everyone's saying you punched some guy’s lights out after services today.”

Leonard scoffed. “Well, he had it coming.”

“‘He had it coming’? I… I can’t even believe what I’m hearing right now. What were you thinking?” 

“Felix, I—”

“No. You know what? Forget it. I don’t want to know. All we need to do now is figure out what we’re going to do with you next.”

Felix chewed on his thumbnail, staring absently at the floor. Leonard watched as he weighed every option, nodding or shaking his head almost imperceptibly,

“Okay,” he said at last. “Okay. I got it. Leave of absence. Lawrence hates making big decisions and he’d always much rather have someone else make them for him. So, you’re going to go to him, tell him you’d like to be placed on a leave of absence, effective immediately.”

“Felix, where am I going to go? I don’t—”

“Just trust me. He’s up in his study. Go and get it over with. You and me’ll work out the rest. Lemme see your face.”

Leonard gladly handed back the now-warm steak. Felix held his chin and inspected the bruise.

“I hope you gave as good as you got, boy,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” Leonard said. “I sure did.”

“Good to hear. Now wipe that look off your face. Time for you to face the music.”

Leonard nodded. He let himself out of the pantry and made his way to Father Lawrence’s study. He paused outside the door, making sure his shirt was tucked in and straightening his collar. He knocked and waited.

“Come in,” he heard Lawrence say.

The heavy oak door creaked as it swung open. Father Lawrence sat at his desk, looking at him over the tops of his reading glasses. He had lit a fire in the grate and the room was airless and hot. Leonard gently shut the door behind him.

“Father Leonard,” he began.

“I’m sorry to interrupt you, Father, but I’d like to take a leave of absence, as of… as of right now.”

Lawrence took his reading glasses off and folded them neatly. “I see,” he said.

Leonard didn’t know what else to say. He could feel himself starting to sweat.

“And how long will this leave of absence be?” Lawrence asked.

“I’m… not sure.”

“You understand you won’t be paid while you’re away.”

“Yes, sir.”

"And I can't guarantee there'll be a place for you when you come back."

"Yes, sir, I know."

Lawrence sighed and rose from his desk. He held his hand out to Leonard. “I do hope you’ll come back to us,” he said as they shook hands. “God bless you, son.” 

Leonard bowed his head. He wanted to say something about how much he'd enjoyed his time here, how he'd miss this place. “Thank you, sir,” was all he could manage.

He went up to his room and sat on the bed. As he looked around, the room he'd lived in for more than a year already felt as if it belonged to another person.

He pulled his trunk out from under the bed. He emptied his desk and his dresser, placing their contents in the trunk. He packed away the books from his nightstand. He picked up the photo of himself as a baby, being held by his father.

As he looked at it, he realized he wanted to show Carol this photo. He wanted her to know everything about him: who he was, who he is, who he hopes to be.

He tucked the photo safely into his wallet.

There was a soft tap on his door. “Phone call for you, Father,” someone said.

His heart fluttered in his chest. It was her; it had to be her. He flew down the stairs to the hall and picked up the receiver.

“Carol?” he said.

“Where is she?”

_Jim_.

Leonard didn’t know where she was, but he’d damned if he’d admit as much to Jim.

“Somewhere safe,” he said. “That’s all you need to know.”

“Where is my wife?”

Leonard began to tell him that she didn’t say where she was going but Jim hung up on him. He put the phone back in its cradle.

_She got out_ , he thought _, and that’s all that matters_.

Back in his room, Leonard found Felix waiting with a paper bag.

“I think these’ll fit,” he said. “I’ve been pilfering from the donation pile for you.”

Leonard looked in the bag and found shirts and pants, all ironed and neatly folded. He’d been wearing clerical clothing for so long, he hadn’t even thought of anything else.

“Right,” he said. “Of course. Thank you.” He tucked the bag into the trunk alongside everything else. “Felix… where am I going?”

“Spring Street, downtown,” he said. “I found you a place with the Catholic Workers.”

Leonard felt himself recoil. “Aren’t they… you know, Communists?”

Felix laughed. “Thomas Merton wrote for the Catholic Worker. I figured you’d love that.”

“Well… that’s, that’s different.”

“Look, Len. They’re willing to put you up, house you, feed you, and all you have to do is show up and work. You don’t have to stay there forever, just until you decide what you’re going to do next.”

Leonard nodded. He didn’t have anywhere else to go.

“I’m… expecting a phone call,” he said. “Will you be sure to tell her where I am?”

“Just finish up,” Felix said. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure she finds you.”

Leonard latched the trunk shut.

“I’m ready,” he said.

#

Now, the radiator in his room begins to clang and sputter to life. Steam whistles furiously from the valve. He tosses aside the blankets, then neatly makes the bed. His new room is sparse: just a bed, a chair, and set of drawers. Only his trunk seems to indicate someone lives there. He wonders where Carol is right now. It’s been weeks since he’s seen her. Felix said someone had called at the rectory before he got home, a woman. Whoever had answered had told her Leonard was gone and she’d hung up.

_Don’t worry about it though, Len,_ Felix said. _We’ll find her. How hard could it be?_

Since then, Leonard called Carol’s apartment every day, just in the hopes he might catch her there. He never calls before nine or after five, dreading the thought that he might call and have Jim pick up. Each time, he dials the number and the first few rings make his heart hammer, believing he’ll hear her voice any second. But each day, the phone just goes on ringing, until he accepts she’s not there and hangs up. He feels a little foolish every time but he doesn’t know how else to reach her. 

When he passes the entrance to the subway, he thinks he should go to her, just get on the next train and show up at her door. He think of how he’d like to steal her away, carry her off right now, this instant, but without a job or even a home of his own, he doesn’t know how they’d ever get by. Sometimes he makes it as far as the turnstile, token in his hand, before turning around again.

After calling her, he hangs up and calls the rectory. He’s already told Felix everything he could think of to find her. _She goes to Columbia. She’s a graduate student. She studies astronomy. The professor she works for starts with an M, Marley, Morrison, something like that._

_Sorry, Len,_ Felix says each time. _No news yet but I’m still trying._

_I know you are,_ he says. _Let me know if you hear anything._

During the week, he saves all the dimes he gets and on Saturday, he calls each hotel in the phone book, asking for _Mrs. Kirk, Mrs. James Kirk? Possibly under own name, Carol?_ He realizes he’d never thought to ask her maiden name. It had never seemed important before now. When he hangs up, he marks each hotel off with a pencil, a faint gray X in the margin.

But yesterday, Felix called him first. He’d tracked Carol down to an office on the Columbia campus. _I told you we’d find her_ , he said, sounding happier than Leonard could have expected _. It turns out she works for one of the engineering professors, though. That’s why I didn’t find her! I left a note for her, telling her where to find you._

He thinks of her reading Felix's note, wondering if she was happy or relieved to see it.

_Does she even still care?_

Leonard rubs at the stubble on his chin. He remembers today is his day to help out with the free clinic over at St. Joe’s. They’ve put him to work doing whatever needs doing since he got here, although nothing they did seemed especially radical or anarchic. Not even Dorothy Day herself. The one time he met her, he expected a fist-shaking firebrand. Instead, she was calm and dignified, with gray hair in two braids that wrapped across her head like a crown. 

He did a different job nearly every day: stuffing envelopes, peeling potatoes for the soup kitchen, delivering bundles of the latest _Catholic Worker_ to parishes all over the city. But he liked working in Dr. Kowalski’s clinic best.

The first time he showed up, a tall woman dropped a stack of clipboards onto the folding table that acted as his desk. 

“Hand these out and ask people to fill out the forms,” she said. “Think you can do that?” 

“Yes, ma’am,” Leonard said. “Will Doctor Kowalski be here soon?” 

She stubbed a cigarette out in the tray. “You’re looking at her,” she said. “Just send the first patient in whenever they’re ready.” 

Leonard scurried to the door and unlocked it. A line of people waited outside. They filed in slowly and filled the rows of folding chairs. He handed each one a clipboard and pencil then sent them through one after another. 

As the morning wore on, a few patients handed back their forms nearly blank and he asked the doctor if he should say anything to them. 

“Some of these folks can’t see well, some can't really read or write… what’re you gonna do?” She shrugged and took a stack of clipboards from his hands, squinting at the one on the top. “Mister… Cohen? Abraham Cohen? Follow me, please.” 

She walked away and Leonard took his place at the table again. An old woman brought her forms to him and as he took it from her, he saw she had only written her name.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t read so good without my glasses.”

“Would you… like my help?” he asked.

The old woman’s face lit up. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, please.”

He gestured to the chair next to him. “We’ll get this filled this out together, okay?” he said.

He read the form aloud and jotted down the woman’s answers. _Insomnia. Fatigue. Shortness of breath._

When they reached the end, he said she could take a seat back in the waiting area and the doctor would see her shortly. The old woman reached over and patted his hand.

“Thank you,” she said.

He looked down at the woman’s hand, spotted and creased with age, and put his hand over hers.

“Ma’am,” he said. “It was my pleasure.”

That day he helped a few more people with their forms: another elderly woman, a man whose eyes were clouded over by cataracts, a Puerto Rican kid translating for his grandmother.

After the clinic closed that afternoon, Dr. Kowalski asked him if he had been the one filling out paperwork.

“Yes,” he said. “I did. I’m sorry, I guess I should have asked…”

“No,” the doctor said. “No, no, this was great. Can you come back next week?”

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, definitely. I’ll see you then.”

The next week, she asked him if he could learn to take vital signs from each patient. She showed him how use the blood pressure cuff, holding the stethoscope to her arm and handing him the earpieces.

“Just listen,” she said.

He heard a quiet pounding, the whoosh of blood in the doctor’s artery, and it filled him with a kind of awe.

"Hear that? Look,” she said, tapping the mercury gauge. “That’s the systolic. Now tell me when you stop hearing anything.”

She slowly released the pressure on the cuff until he no longer heard anything through the stethoscope. He gave her a nod and she pointed to the gauge again.

“That’s diastolic,” she said. She pulled the cuff from her arm and handed it to him. “Practice on yourself and I’ll see you in a week.”

Before they opened the door to the clinic the next week, she sat down and rolled up her sleeve.

"Show me what you know," she said. He'd measured his own blood pressure every night that week, until his arm ached. He wrapped the cuff around her bicep and pressed the stethoscope to her arm. He pumped the bulb then slowly released the pressure, listening intently.

“One-thirty over ninety,” he said.

The doctor raised her eyebrows and for a moment, he thought he'd gotten it all wrong.

“Well,” she said. “A little on the high side but that’s my doing, not yours." She pulled the cuff off her arm. “You ever think of going back to school, maybe become a doctor?” she asked.

He shrugged.

She checked her watch. “Time to let these folks in,” she said. “But really, consider it. I think you’re a natural.”

He just nodded and started setting out clipboards, but he thought about what she said. He thought about it every night that week.

Now, he gets dressed and heads down the hall to the bathroom. He examines his face in the mirror as he shaves. He wonders if he looks like a doctor, or whether he’s too old start all over again. He goes downstairs to the big kitchen shared by everyone in the building. He helps himself to coffee and a bowl of gluey oatmeal from a pot left simmering on the stove.

Everyone else is still sleeping or has already gotten to work. Most people here are like him, just passing through. Some have been authors or lecturers, but others have just been down on their luck, out of work, struggling. They all eat dinner together nearly every night, and Leonard listens much more than he speaks. He doesn’t really know anyone here anyway, other than saying a passing hello. It’s lonely, he thinks, but in a good kind of way. It’s quiet and he can think better that way.

He pulls on a knit hat and wraps his scarf around his neck, close to his face. It takes him twenty minutes to walk to St. Joe’s, always the same route, down Spring Street and up Sixth Avenue. When he reaches the church, he slips in through a side door and heads down to the basement. He sets out folding chairs in prim rows and fashions an office for Dr. Kowalski from a card table and an old Army cot, hiding it behind a partition. He clips forms to clipboards and sharpens pencils. Then he waits.

He hears footsteps on the stairs leading down to the basement, and two voices.

He hears Dr. Kowalski say, “If he’s here, he should be just down here… oh, there you are, Leonard. This girl’s here to see you.”

Dr. Kowalski appears and gestures behind her.

_Carol_.

For a moment, he forgets how to move, how to breathe. He gets to his feet and starts to cross the room. Carol’s eyes widen and, as she smiles, a giddy elation pumps through his veins, as though suddenly oxygen had returned to his atmosphere.

“Hi,” he says. “You found me.”

“Felix told me where to find you,” she says.

He wants to sweep her into his lap and kiss her hands, her cheeks, her mouth, but as he draws closer, he sees her eyes are red.

“Can we talk somewhere?” she asks. He watches her twist her wedding band around her finger and his stomach sinks. He gestures to the stairs behind her. She walks up the stairs and he follows her through a door and into the church upstairs. They walk around the altar and she sits in the first pew.

“It’s nice here,” she says. “Is this your church now?”

He sits beside her and shakes his head. “No, but you’re right, it is nice here.”

“What is it you do here?”

“I help Dr. Kowalski with the free clinic she runs.”

“Do you like it?” she asks.

He wants to tell her about the people he helps, the old, the sick, the poor. When he sees them get better, he’s filled with a gladness he can’t describe, to help people again, to heal them.

_I think I want to be a doctor,_ he wants to say _. I think it’s what I was meant to do all along._

“I do like it,” he says. “Very much.”

He notices her staring at him and she looks away.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m just not used to seeing you without the…” She gestures to her throat and he looks down at what he’s wearing, suddenly self-conscious. “It suits you, though,” she says.

“Thanks,” he says.

“I’m… sorry it took me so long to find you,” she says. “I called you that night but they said you were already gone.”

“Felix said as much. How did he find you?”

“A note. He left a note for me in my office at the school. ‘Our mutual friend can be found at 39 Spring Street. Signed, F.’ It was like being in a spy novel.” They both laugh.

“I missed hearing you laugh,” he says.

Her face grows somber again, and he wishes he had kept quiet.

“I went home,” she says.

He nods. He knew this was why she had come. He thinks of Jim, and his hands clench.

“I… I had to,” she says. “I’m sorry.”

He wants to assure her she’s done the right thing, tell her that marriage is a sacrament, a sacred bond. But he knows he can’t make her believe it, not when he doesn’t believe it himself. Carol and Jim were just two people stuck with each other, despite whatever anyone else might want.

“I’m sorry, too,” he says.

She presses her lips together and nods. “How did…” She stops to swallow hard. “How did you know what I was going to tell you? Your note, you said, ‘I think I know what you wanted to tell me.’”

“You told me,” he says. “In the hospital. Maybe not in so many words, exactly, but you told me you had a dream about… her.”

She nods and folds her arms around herself, her head bowed, and he realizes she’s weeping, silently. He puts both his arms around her and she tips halfway into his lap, still shuddering without making a sound. Her tears wet his shirtsleeve. 

“She had beautiful dark hair,” she murmurs. “And I just… I knew. And I was so happy. I should have been ashamed but I was happy.”

He leans down and kisses her hair.

“You could have told me,” he says close to her ear. He imagines her coming to see him, holding the hand of a small, dark-haired child. Half-him and half-her, created purely by accident but by so much love.

She pulls away, struggling to sit upright. Her face is tear-streaked and mottled. She’s the most beautiful woman he's ever seen.

“And I… I love you, too,” she says. “I need you to know that, even if it doesn’t matter anymore, I do, I—”

He takes her face in his hands and kisses her. Her lips part and when his tongue meets hers, she whimpers softly. He thinks of how indecent they must look, a married woman and a disgraced priest, clutching each other in the pews, but he doesn’t care.

“I love you,” he says. The first time he's said it aloud, and he knows he needs to go on saying it forever.

_I love you._ He murmurs it against her wet cheeks and the warm skin of her neck.

_I love you, love you, love you_. She sobs, a broken, guttural sound that feels as if it could shatter him.

She grabs the front of his shirt in her fists.

“Find someone else,” she rasps. “Please.”

Her hands tighten, nearly shaking him.

“Find someone and be happy,” she says. “I want you to be happy. Promise me.”

He shakes his head. _No_.

She touches his hair, his face. She presses her forehead to his temple.

“Goodbye,” she says.

She leaps from the pew before he can say another word. The entire church seems to echo with the sound of her walking away, the click of her heels on the tiles. When the church door slams behind her, he gasps aloud.

He slumps in the pew, resting his head against the back of his seat. He looks at the mural behind the altar—Christ on the cross, with His arms outstretched.

He waits, hoping Christ will speak some words of comfort to his heart, but he hears nothing but his own ragged breath.


	32. Jim

Jim drums his pen on his desk. He checks his watch. Still twenty minutes to four. On the other side of his office, Armstrong whistles tunelessly as he finishes cleaning out his desk.

“Admit it, Kirk,” Armstrong says. “You’re gonna miss me.” 

“Hell no,” he says with a grin. “I hope they’ll get someone in here who actually works for living.”

“So, you coming out for a drink tonight or what?” he asks.

“I dunno, maybe,” Jim says. “The wife…” He shrugs, as if to demonstrate his helplessness.

#

He was glad when she came back. Cautiously so, but still happy. Things were getting back to how they should be.

For the first time in months, they went to church together that Sunday. But as they sat in the pew, she didn’t hold her hand out to him to be held. She simply folded her hands in her lap and stared straight ahead. He watched her from the corner of his eye throughout Mass. Her face was calm, expressionless. Her gaze didn’t flick here and there in thought. She blinked slowly, lazily, like a cat. He thought she had finally found a way to let herself be absorbed by the liturgy but when he got up to take communion, she didn’t even budge. When they got home, he asked why she had stayed back.

_I just didn’t feel like it_ , she said, as if that was answer enough.

A couple days later, he found her looking through his coat pockets as he got ready for work. She made no effort to cover up what she was doing. Then she hung the coat back in the closet and gently closed the door.

As she walked away, she asked if he’d like toast for breakfast. He followed her into the kitchen.

“What were you looking for?” he asked.

She stood staring at him for a long moment without answering.

“Would you like toast or not?” she asked.

As he looked at her, he felt as if something had been excised from her, clinically, painlessly, without leaving any mark.

“No,” he said. “Just coffee.”

He tried to think of ways to get her to come around. He brought her flowers and the latest Ella Fitzgerald record. On Valentine’s Day, he gave her the biggest heart-shaped box of chocolates he could find. Each time, she thanked him and pecked him on the cheek then went back to whatever it was she was doing. She no longer put her arms around his waist, or called him _Sunny Jim._

He tried to make love to her and she backed away. She reminded him that the doctor at the hospital had told her to abstain from relations for at least six weeks, and the memory of the hospital was enough to put him off.

The next time he tried, she had a headache. After that, it was cramps. It had been months and he was reduced to beating off in the shower like some teenager.

One night, after she’d gone to bed, he slipped in beside her. She lay on her side with her back to him and he nestled against her. He asked her if she was asleep, but she made no sound. The heat of her body on his was like coming into a warm room after being out in the cold. He felt his cock start to twitch and pressed himself up against her, savoring the friction. He kissed the back of her neck, then reached around and slid his hand under her breast, teasing the pert nipple under her nightgown. Still she did not stir. 

He skimmed over her stomach, to grip her by the hip, rutting against her with increasing urgency. He needed her, needed to be inside her. He tugged at the nightgown, pulling it up to her waist. He extracted himself from his shorts with one hand and removed her panties with the other. The feel of his cock against her ass was nearly too much, his skin on hers for the first time in seemingly forever. He nudged himself between the top of her thighs. At last, she sighed and shifted, arching her back to meet him. He thrust urgently into her and everything was right again, everything was perfect. The world around him seemed to fall away, winnowing down to nothing but the bright white spark where their bodies made contact.

He came with a muffled cry, his forehead pressed between her shoulder blades. He lay there, waiting to catch his breath, his thumb rubbing over her hipbone.

“Are you finished?” she asked.

He didn’t answer. She removed his hand from her hip and extracted herself from their bed. She got up, left the room, and shut herself in the bathroom. He listened, expecting to hear the taps running or the toilet flush, something. But he heard nothing. He crept back to his side of the bed, waiting for her, but he fell asleep before she returned.

The next morning, he left for work without waking her. When he returned that night, she had dinner on the table, ready for him. He waited for her to say something, anything, about last night. He planned to tell her she had made him feel like a pervert, like he’d forced himself on her.

_I’m a man_ , he planned to say. _And I have needs_.

After they ate dinner, she laid her fork down, dabbed at her mouth with a napkin, then said, “There’s something I’d like to talk to you about.”

He braced himself, ready to refute whatever she said.

“My father would like to buy us a house,” she said.

He sat for a moment, struggling to understand.

“No,” he said at last. “Tell him no. _Again_. Why does he keep bringing this up?”

“You haven’t even heard what he's suggesting,” she said.

“Well, I’m not interested,” he said. “End of discussion.”

She laughed, a hard sound he’d never heard from her before. “ _What_ discussion? We haven’t _discussed_ anything.”

“Look, any place we get, it’s going to be because _I_ paid for it.”

“Right,” she said. “Because all this time I’ve been working, I’ve been getting paid in make-believe money.”

“We can’t live on what _you_ make,” he said.

“Should we see if we can live without it? Is that what you’d rather do?”

“For Christ’s sake, Carol! What is wrong with you?”

“Nothing,” she said, rising from her chair. “Nothing’s wrong with me.”

She picked up his plate and took it to the kitchen without asking.

#

“Come on,” Armstrong says to him now. “One drink. Then you can head straight home to the old ball and chain.”

Jim had mentioned this going-away party to Carol. He dropped it into the conversation over coffee this morning.

_Are you going?_ she’d asked.

The same detached tone.

_Are you finished?_

“Okay,” Jim says. “I’m convinced. One drink.”

#

The bar Armstrong picks is dim and rowdy. Jim struggles to hear over the noise.

“I’m telling you, Kirk… _Florida_. Land’s cheap. Houses’re cheap. And the girls walk around in tiny shorts almost all year round.” He slaps Jim on the shoulder. “You should get outta here. New York, it’s… it’s circling the drain.”

Jim wants to protest, to tell him, _you’re wrong, New York will always be the greatest city on Earth,_ but Armstrong sees someone come in and leaps from his barstool to greet him.

Jim signals the bartender, pointing to his empty glass.

“I’ll take another,” he says.

#

When he said goodbye to Armstrong, Jim wished him well, wished him all the luck in the world, and that he would succeed beyond his wildest hope in Florida. He honestly hoped to never see the guy again. At last, Jim was finally free from that jackass he shared his office with every goddamned day. He’d never hear that braying laugh again, never sit through another one of Armstrong’s soliloquies on which secretary had perfect tits or how the Jews run everything.

Now, he leaves the bar after the last round of goodbyes and heads for home. He isn’t drunk, he tells himself. _Definitely not drunk. Just… happy_. Happier than he’d been in a while. He stops on the corner of 42nd and Broadway, watching the snow fall on a nearly deserted Times Square, the neon lights reflecting in the snow.

_Screw Armstrong_ , he thinks. _How could anyone want to live anywhere else?_

The wind picks up and he hurries underground to get out of the cold. As he approaches the subway washroom, a man catches his eye: perhaps his age, Irish-looking, dark hair, blue eyes. The man looks him in the eye, looks away, and looks back again.

“Excuse me,” the man says. “Gotta light?” He waves an unlit cigarette in one hand.

“Sure,” Jim says, fishing around in his pockets until he finds his lighter. “Here you go.”

“Thanks,” the stranger says. He touches Jim’s wrist as he lights the cigarette, just a moment’s brush, not long enough for anyone to take notice but long enough to make Jim’s skin tingle.

“Anytime,” Jim says. He smiles and walks into the men’s room.

The washroom is squalid and shadowy, but surprisingly empty. Still, Jim checks under the stalls to see if anyone’s there. He turns on the taps and washes his hands. After a moment, the guy with the cigarette turns up.

“Headed home?” the man asks. He leans back against the sink and crosses one ankle over the other.

“Eventually,” Jim says, drying his hands. “What about you?”

The man shrugs. “Not yet. You got any ideas on… where to find a good time?”

Jim feels his pulse quicken, anticipation and hunger cutting through the liquor. He looks at himself in the mirror over the sink and straightens his tie, then takes a step closer to the man. He smiles.

“I got a few ideas,” he says. “But it depends on what your idea of a good time is.”

He moves closer still, close enough to smell the stranger’s aftershave. Jim hasn’t played this game in so long, and now he wants to go on for ages.

The stranger tilts his chin and looks up at Jim through long, dark lashes.

“Maybe you wanna show me what your idea of a good time is,” he murmurs.

The man’s coat is open, revealing a light sweater and pants that look just a little too tight. Jim lets his eyes sink down the length of the man’s body, slowly, deliberately, letting the stranger watch him as he does.

“Maybe I will,” he says. He closes the gap between their bodies, and slips his hand onto the stranger’s hip.

In a flash, the man grabs Jim’s wrist, wrenches his arm behind his back. He grabs the back of Jim’s neck and smashes his head down against the sink, stunning him. He pulls him up by the collar and slams him against the wall.

“Maybe next time, faggot,” the man says. “You’re under arrest.”

Jim watches the mirror as some other version of himself is handcuffed, blood running down one side of that other Jim’s face. The undercover cop holds Jim by the arm with one hand and steers him out of the washroom with the other. As they walk through the subway station, people look at Jim, then quickly look away.

“Where are you taking me?” Jim asks.

“Not too bright, are you?” the cop says. “I’m taking you down to the precinct to book you.”

"What are you charging me with?"

"Disorderly conduct," he says. "You were disturbing the peace."

At the entrance to the subway station, the man whistles to a beat cop and waves him over. 

“Take ‘im down for me, will ya?” he says to the cop. Then he turns to Jim. “Better luck next time, sister,” he says, and winks.

The beat cop leads Jim by the arm. Outside, a squad car is waiting, and he opens the back door.

“Watch yourself,” he says. He puts a hand on top of Jim’s head to guide him into the back seat, strangely gentle. The cop starts the car and he drives a few blocks to the midtown station.

At the precinct, the cop uncuffs him and brings him to a cell. A drunk dozes in the corner. Another man paces back and forth, muttering under his breath.

“Excuse me,” Jim says. “I get a phone call, don’t I?”

“Sure, mac,” the cop says. “Just wait your turn in here and you’ll get your call. Eventually.”

“Thank you,” he says. He doesn’t smile, but tries to project an air of humility _. It was all a misunderstanding, officer. I was only… He was just…_ Jim’s brain scrabbles for a reason, an explanation. He looks at the stained wool blanket on the bunk in the cell and decides to stand instead.

Hours pass. Eventually, someone takes the mumbling guy away and Jim hears him shrieking a few minutes later. The drunk snores, stops, snores again. At some point, the guy pisses himself in his sleep and Jim presses his forehead to the bars to try and escape the smell.

_Jesus Christ_ , he thinks. _How am I going to get out of here?_

The undercover cop from the washroom comes to the cell door.

“Let’s go, sunshine,” he says. He takes Jim upstairs, to be fingerprinted and photographed. All the man’s charm and flirtation is gone. Jim feels stupid and sick.

He answers the officer’s questions and agrees to his account of events: _Yes, I approached you. Yes, I made unwanted advances. Yes, I was disturbing the peace._

After he fills out the paperwork, the cop asks if he has anyone he wants to call. He glances at the clock. Nearly three in the morning. He could wait. He could go back down to the holding cell until morning. He tries to think of who he could call. Not Carol. Not Christopher.

“Do you have a phone book I could use?” Jim asks. The cop nods and hands him a copy from his desk.

Jim flips through the smudgy pages hoping to find the number. He picks up the officer’s desk phone and dials.

_Please pick up,_ he thinks. _Please pick up, please pick up, pick up, pick up._

Finally, someone answers. “H-hello?”

“Gaila? Gaila, it’s Jim. Jim Kirk.”

He pictures her in her apartment, surrounded by canvases. “What… why are you calling me?” she asks.

“I, um…” He feels himself start to falter. “I need your _help_ ,” he says.

#

“Kirk?” the officer grunts. Jim snaps to attention. He must have nodded off after the cop brought him back to the holding cell.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, that’s me.”

“Your wife’s here,” the cop says.

Jim staggers to his feet, shocked. _Why would Carol be here? Jesus, did the cop call her? Is this some kind of joke? More punishment?_

“M-my wife?” he asks.

“Uh, yeah,” the cop says. “Redhead, nice rack… ringing any bells?”

Jim sighs. “Yeah. Yeah, of course. Thank you.”

The cop watches Jim warily as he unlocks the cell door and swings it open. “Upstairs,” he says, pointing down the hall.

He sees Gaila, and her eyes go wide. Her face goes almost scarlet, a flush that creeps up from her neck. She scowls and turns back to the cop at the front desk. He watches her point at him then jab her finger in the cop’s face.

“He _fell_?” he hears her say. “You expect me to believe his face looks like that from a fall?”

The cop shrugs.

“Give me a break,” she says. "You should be ashamed of yourselves, all of you. You're nothing but a... a bunch of street thugs."

“Jesus, Gaila, please, don’t,” Jim says, when he reaches her. “It’s fine.” He puts a hand on her shoulder and she jerks away. She stares at the officer, furious.

“Can we go now?” he asks the cop.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re free to go,” he says, smirking. “Have a nice day.”

Gaila mutters under her breath the entire time as they walk out of the precinct. The streets are dark and empty, covered in snow. Jim checks his watch. Almost five in the morning.

“Do you want me to take you to the hospital?” Gaila asks. “That cut on your head looks bad.”

“No,” he says. “Thank you, I... I think I’ll be fine.”

She takes a handkerchief from her pocket. She scoops a handful of snow off a mailbox and packs it into the cloth.

“Here,” she says, motioning to his face. “It’ll help.”

The snow stings like hell. “Which way’s the subway?” he asks.

“This way,” she says.

They walk without speaking, the snow crunching under their shoes.

“What they did to you,” she says. “It’s… it’s not right.” 

“I thought for sure you’d tell me I got what I had coming to me,” he says.

“Did you resist arrest?” she asks.

“No,” he says. “I mean, I don’t think I did. The guy cracked my head on the sink and then he told me I was being arrested.”

She purses her mouth and shakes her head. “It’s not right.”

“How much was the fine?” he asks.

“A painting’s worth,” she says. “You’re lucky I just sold one.”

“Hey, congratulations,” he says. He cracks a smile just long enough to realize how much his head hurts.

“You gonna make it home okay?” she asks. She opens the door to the subway station and holds it open for him.

“Yeah, don’t worry,” he says. He checks the subway signs. “I gotta go uptown from here. You going home?”

She nods. “Hopefully I can go back to sleep for a bit before work,” she says.

“Thank you, again,” he says. “I’ll bring the money to you…” He thinks. It’s Saturday morning and the bank won’t open again until Monday. _Damn_.

He gets his wallet and finds a ten-dollar bill. “Take this now and I’ll get the rest to you Monday,” he says. He takes her hand and stuffs the bill into it. “Thank you,” he says, softly. “You were a lifesaver.”

She stands on tiptoe and gently kisses his unharmed cheek.

“You’re welcome,” she says. “And if you ever call me in the middle of the night again, I’ll kill you.”

“Fair enough,” he says.

They head down separate stairs to the subway platforms. He sees her, waiting on the other side, the canyon of tracks between them. Just before the arriving train blocks his view, she blows him a kiss, tossing it theatrically from her outstretched hand. He laughs and ducks his head.

As he sits in the train, he realizes the snow has melted in her handkerchief and he squeezes the water from it. The fabric is thin and feels cheap, printed with gaudy looking flowers and now stained with blood. He runs a finger over the initials someone embroidered in the corner: M.G.

#

When he arrives home, Carol is sitting on the sofa, her back to the door. He stands in the open doorway a moment before coming in.

He hangs up his coat and hat, waiting for her to say something. She’s fully dressed, and he wonders just how long she’s been sitting there. He stands in the middle of the room, unsure whether to sit next to her.

She turns to look at him. When she sees his face, she closes her eyes and turns away again.

“What happened?” she asks.

“I… I fell.”

“You fell,” she says, nodding. “So, where were you? I know you didn’t go to the hospital. I called them all already.”

He pictures her, dialing one number after another, her heart in her throat, asking if he’s there.

“Christ, I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he says. “I guess I should have called, I just didn’t want to wake you up.” He sits next to her and she goes on staring straight ahead.

“Where were you?” she asks again.

“I…” He sighs. “I was arrested.”

She nods slowly, as if this was something she expected.

“For what?” she says.

“Nothing, it was just a stupid misunderstanding.”

“For _what_?”

“Nothing!” he says. “They said I was disturbing the peace. I wasn’t. I was just… in the wrong place at the wrong time, that’s all. Now can we drop it? Please?”

She closes her eyes a moment and takes a deep breath.

“Empty your pockets first,” she says.

“What? No, I won’t! I don’t have anything to prove to you,” he says. “Don’t you trust me?”

“No,” she says softly. “I don’t.”

He scoffs. “Pretty high and mighty for someone who screwed a priest, aren’t you?”

Her face goes red, but she says nothing.

“I thought so,” he says. “Let’s just forget this whole thing happened and move on, okay?”

She shakes her head. “No. I don’t… I don’t want to.”

“You don’t want what?” 

“This,” she says, gesturing around her. “I don’t want… _any_ of this anymore." Her voice is soft and even. "I came back. I tried. Really, I tried. But I… I’m done,” she says. “I’m done.”

She gets up from the couch and disappears into the bedroom. A moment later, she returns, carrying a suitcase. 

_When did she pack that?_ he wonders. _Tonight? Before that?_

“You can stay here,” she says. “I’ve been talking to my father about his offer and I think I'm going to take him up on it.” She walks to the closet and takes out her coat.

“Carol, wait!” he says, leaping up from the couch. “Stop! Just… wait, wait a minute.”

She shakes her head, looking at the buttons as she fastens them.

"I'm sorry it's come to this, really, I am," she says. "But, I just… I think this will be better for both of us, in the long run—"

“For God's sake, just stop!” He seizes her arm.

She wheels around and slaps him, hard, striking the bruise already on his face. One of her buttons clatters to the floor, torn free from the coat.

“That’s the last time you will ever lay a hand on me.” Her voice shakes and her eyes are wide. “ _Ever_ ,” she says, pointing at him.

She snatches up the suitcase and flings the door open. He watches her walk out and down the stairs. He walks to the doorway and shouts at her to come back.

He goes on shouting for ten minutes, even though he knows she is long gone. _You whore, you slut, you stuck-up frigid bitch._

When he can't think of anything else to say, he keeps standing in the doorway, not ready to turn around and face the empty room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this was one of those chapters where, as I was editing later, I had to break away from canonical Jim Kirk and turn up the asshole factor for the sake of the story. Maybe we can all pretend this is actually Mirror!Kirk? I'm cool with that.


	33. Carol

Her eyes skim over the same sentence at least three times before she realizes it. She closes the novel and rolls onto her side. She asked the hotel operator to place a person-to-person call for her father but she hasn’t rung back yet. She still isn’t sure what she’s going to say.

Her room at the Roosevelt is far nicer than the one she stayed in at the Martha Washington, but she knows these overseas phone calls will mean an astronomical bill when she checks out. Whenever that might be. She walks back and forth across the room. She could run herself a bath, she thinks, or listen to the radio. Maybe both. Anything to relieve this endless waiting.

While she’s filling the tub, the phone rings. She shuts off the taps and hurries to answer it.

“Mrs. Kirk,” the operator says. “I’ve got Admiral Marcus on the line for you. Shall I connect you now?”

“Yes, please,” she says. “Thank you very much.”

She hears a clicking and soft static on the line.

“Carol?” her father asks. “Did I hear correctly? Are you at the Roosevelt Hotel?”

“Yes, I am,” she says. She knows it’s his favorite hotel. She wants to ask him about the time he saw Guy Lombardo and his orchestra playing here, just to hear him tell the story again.

“I… I left Jim,” she says.

“I see,” he says. “I see…” 

“I just…” Her voice trails away.

_I failed, Dad,_ she thinks _. I tried and I failed._

“You know,” her father says. “He never really asked my permission to marry you. He just sort of announced his intentions and expected I’d agree.”

“That sounds about right,” she says.

“I should have said no. Would have served him right.”

She laughs, although her eyes are welling up with tears. “I would have just gone and done it anyway,” she says.

“Ah, true,” he says. “Very true. It’s a trait I’ve always admired in you.”

“Oh, _Dad_ —” She covers her mouth to keep from crying into the phone.

After a pause, her father clears his throat.

“Carol? Are you still there?” he asks.

“Yes, I… I’m still here.” 

“You know my offer of buying you a place to live still stands, if you want it,” he says. “On one condition.”

She feels her stomach drop. “What is it?”

“I want to put in your name and your name only,” he says. “I don’t want that bastard getting his hands on anything of yours, from here on out.”

“Yes, sir,” she says. “I think I can live with that.”

#

“I bought it for my son to live in, but…” Mr. Whyte stares into his teacup, and Carol’s father pats him awkwardly on the shoulder.

Admiral Marcus arrived in New York a week after Carol spoke to him. _You remember Whyte, don’t you?_ he asked her. _Does that funny thing with his lip when he talks?_

She said _yes, of course_ , but she couldn’t recall if she’d ever heard his name before. It was his house her father decided to buy, largely as a favor to Whyte. Her father muttered something about hard times, some sort of loss he’d suffered.

Now, in Whyte’s apartment on the Upper East Side, she sips her tea and wonders if he’ll say what happened to his son.

“Well,” Whyte says with a nod. “Enough talk. Shall we go see it?”

The doorman downstairs hails a cab and the three of them pile into the back seat. Whyte leans over and gives the driver a destination: Cornelia Street, just off Bleecker.

They ride in silence, across the leafless park and down the gray length of Seventh Avenue. She repeats the directions in her head, like trying on new shoes. _Cornelia Street, driver. Oh, yes, I live on Cornelia Street, just off Bleecker._

The cab turns a corner and Whyte taps the cabbie on the shoulder.

“Just over here, please,” he says, indicating a plain, three-story building. “We won’t be long. Would you wait for us?”

The driver nods and picks up a newspaper from the seat next to him.

Whyte tries half a dozen keys before finding one that unlocks the front door. When he gets it open, he holds the door open for her.

“After you,” he says, and she steps through a short hallway into a cavernous space. Her eyes take a moment to adjust to the gloom.

“The kitchen, parlor, and bath are all down here,” Whyte says. “Bedrooms and a second bath upstairs. The top floor is a separate apartment, if you’d perhaps like to rent it out to one of your school chums or save it for guests or, or, what have you…”

She nods, only half-listening as she walks slowly through each room. A few pieces of furniture have been left behind, covered by dust sheets. The wallpaper is faded and curls at the edges. But the ceilings are high, the windows, plentiful and tall.

“Italian family lived here last,” Whyte explains. “Sisters. The married one lived down here with her children, the spinster lived upstairs.”

She peeks into each room, feeling as if she’s trespassing, even though they are all empty. In one of the smaller bedrooms, she finds clippings from _Movie Life_ magazine still taped to the walls, a faded Natalie Wood and Tab Hunter still gazing at each other longingly.

Whyte takes her father to see the second apartment upstairs, but she remains downstairs, alone.

_This house is lovely but it’s… so big,_ she thinks. _Far too big for just me._

She sweeps a thick layer of dust from a windowsill and sits down. If she turns down her father’s offer… what then? Hope to find some girl who’s looking for a roommate? Become a dorm mother at the university?

“Carol?” her father calls. “Are you ready to leave?”

She brushes dust from her hand and the seat of her dress.

“Yes, Dad,” she says. “Ready whenever you are.”

They climb back into the cab outside. As it starts up, Whyte and her father quietly bicker over the details of some long-ago misadventure that happened years before she was born. She stares out the window at the neighborhood as it crawls past. She asks herself whether she could live here, if she would want to live here. The cabbie honks and slowly nudges his way onto Sixth Avenue.

Then, across an intersection, she sees a church with twin columns under a pediment topped with a cross.

Leonard’s church. St. Joseph’s. The church she ran away from almost two months ago.

She hadn’t realized it was here. The traffic light changes. She turns her head to watch the church as the cab sweeps past. She feels like it’s an omen, some harbinger, but she can’t say exactly what it means: _come closer_ or _stay away._

The cab pulls up to the Roosevelt. Her father says goodbye to Whyte and the car whisks him away.

Her father stops on the sidewalk outside the hotel. “Well?” he asks. “What did you think? Too big for you?”

She nods. “A bit,” she says. “But… I think I liked it there.”

“Ah. Excellent. I suppose that settles it then,” he says. “Now, dinner?”

#

Each time the attorney points at the paper, she needs to remember to sign her new, old name: _Carol F. Marcus_. She forgot how much she enjoyed making the large looping _M_ of _Marcus_ , undulating across the paper.

Just as her fingers begin to cramp, Whyte’s lawyer taps the papers together and holds out his hand.

“As soon as your marriage is legally dissolved,” he says. “I will file the deed of sale and 35 Cornelia Street will be solely yours.” He smiles. “Congratulations on your new home.”

She shakes his hand and thanks him, unsure this moment deserves any congratulations. Mr. Whyte shakes her hand as well, and dryly kisses her cheek.

“Here you are, my dear,” he says, laying the keys into her palm.

Her father rubs his hands together with anticipation. “Let’s get you moved in, shall we?”

#

On a Thursday afternoon, she arrives at her apartment—Jim’s apartment, she reminds herself—with her father and the moving men her father insisted on hiring. She doesn’t really want much, not the bed they shared, or the couch they sat on, or the plates they ate from. The only piece of furniture that’s truly hers is her desk, and one of the brawny moving men tucks it under his big arm and carries it off.

She piles all her clothes onto the bed and the movers pack it all away. At the back of a drawer, she finds the baby shoes she bought months before. She can’t bring herself open the little white box. They feel unlucky to her somehow, as if they were jinxed. She takes an empty carton to the bathroom and buries the baby shoes under curlers, powders, lotions, all these things she left behind.

Her father stands guard at the open apartment door. That morning over breakfast, she told him almost everything that happened with Jim. The details spilled out of her: the way he acted at the hospital, the phone numbers in his pockets, his alleged arrest. Her father only nodded, his face grim and set. 

“Jim’s at work today, Dad,” she says. “There’s no reason he’d come home in the middle of the day.” But he just folds his arms, watching the movers come and go.

She takes her books from their shelves, her records from their collection. Lastly, she reaches into the back of a kitchen cupboard and extracts a jar of Marmite, nearly empty, which she tucks into her purse.

“I think that’s everything,” she tells her father.

“Excellent,” he says. “Onward and upward.”

He insists on taking her to buy new things at Macy’s. Her father tells the salesclerk to tote it all up and send him the bill. She can see the clerk’s expression brighten, already anticipating a fat commission check. But the gleam leaves the clerk’s eyes the longer he follows Carol around the store. She picks out the barest necessities: simple Corning Ware plates and Pyrex baking dishes, a portable record player, a plain chest of drawers.

When they make their way to the mattresses, the clerk steers her towards a modest single bed but she’s already seen the one she wants. She walks over to an enormous brass bed, gleaming in the store’s lights.

“I want this one,” she says.

The clerk arches an eyebrow, and she makes herself smile at him.

“This one, please,” she says and walks away, off to choose from the linens.

She thinks of the clerk’s face again after the bed is delivered. She makes the bed up in all white: white sheets, white pillowcases, white coverlet. Then she kicks off her shoes and lays in the center of it. It feels decadent, wanton even, to have this much space all to herself. She rolls from one side of the bed to the other, testing it, then stretches out in the middle again, sighing happily.

#

The first letter she gets in her new home is from her father, asking her how she’s getting along. She writes back at length, describing everything she’s done so far: scrubbed floors, washed windows, painted walls. She doesn’t tell him how she opened the linen closet and found penciled lines up and down the door, next to dates and letters. She puzzled over it a minute before understanding it was the children who used to live here, their heights marked on the door as they grew. She stood there for a moment, paintbrush in one hand, then closed the door again.

Her father closes the letter by saying that he broke the news to her mother, even though Carol had asked him not to just yet. _She’ll get over it in time,_ the letter says, _and she wishes you well_. She tries not to be disheartened to find her mother didn’t include her usual postscript. Carol ends her own letter by asking her father to pass along her love to everyone—her mother, her sister, her sister’s children—and says she misses them all. She does miss them. She misses Christine and Janice, too. She misses having someone, anyone to talk to.

Almost every day, she takes the subway up to Columbia, tucking herself into a corner of the subway car with a book. If she’s late, Professor Scott looks anxious when she arrives.

_I just worry about you, lass_ , _living all by your lonesome_ , he tells her. _Are you really sure you cannae work it out with your husband?_

He circles newspaper ads for locksmiths and security companies and leaves it in her office mailbox. She assures him over and over: she's safe, she's fine, everything is fine. When the semester ends, he tells her to keep in touch over the summer, to call him if she ever needs anything at all. She just smiles and thanks him but at home, she gets an extra deadbolt installed just the same.

She spends her days off exploring her new neighborhood. At night, she writes in a diary, something she hasn’t done for years, just to have some way to recount all her new experiences. She learns where the best fruit and vegetables are sold. One of the alley cats by her back door is tame enough to be petted, an orange-striped tomcat with a handsome, battered face. She calls him Tab Hunter and brings him cans of tuna fish. She finds a new hairdresser and gets her light hair tinted in different shades. She tries flaming auburn, then a bluish black, auditioning different selves she could be, before finally going back to blonde.

The old butcher at the Italian meat market flirts with her and sends her home with strange, lyrical foods: _mortadella, sopressata, prosciutto_. He pronounces them for her and makes her repeat them back. When she gets it right, he cheers. She squirms with embarrassment each time, but there are some days when he’s the only person she speaks to.

At home, she never really cooks anymore. When it’s dinnertime, she fries a couple of eggs or assembles little plates with sliced meat from the butcher, or cheeses from Murray’s at the end of the block. The last owners of the house left a dining table and chairs behind, enough to seat eight, but she takes her meals upstairs to her bedroom. She lounges in bed, a plate by her side and a book in her hand. She feels free and easy, licking the salty taste of prosciutto from her fingers before she turns a page.

She decides not to buy a television. Instead, she flips through her records and rediscovers music she loved years ago, wondering why she ever stopped playing them. She finds a Doris Day album she forgot she owned and listens to it incessantly. She takes the record player from room to room as she cleans and paints the walls, and sings along.

_Now I shout it from the highest hills, even told the golden daffodils._

_At last my heart's an open door…_

When night comes, she finds it hard to sleep. At first, she tells herself it’s just because she’s sleeping in a new bed in a new home. But as the weeks wear on, it doesn’t get easier. Her mind races. She gets out of bed in the middle of the night to assure herself she did indeed lock the front door. She lays in bed and replays the last argument she had with Jim, wondering if she could have said something different, whether it would have changed anything. When she gets to the part where he threw Leonard back in her face, she seethes again each time.

She tries not to think about Leonard, knowing how easy it would be to ache for him, to quietly slip back into that place in her head where he still lives. She always makes a wide berth around St. Joseph’s for fear of running into him, and never sets foot on Spring Street, where he might still live. Even with these precautions, she still thinks she sees him a few times, her heart pounding until she gets closer and realizes she was wrong.

One warm afternoon in May, the sky clouds over and thunder rumbles in the distance. She takes a chance and cuts down Spring Street anyway. As she does, she sees a man and a woman emerge from a building a few paces in front of her. For a moment, she thinks it couldn’t be Leonard, not with some girl. She wants to turn away but she keeps moving forward, hoping to realize it isn’t him after all. She watches a look of confusion and then recognition pass over his face. 

“Carol?” he asks.

“I thought that was you,” she says, smiling. She pretends not to see how the tall girl standing next to him slips her hand into the crook of his arm to claim him.

Leonard shakes his head as he looks at Carol. “What are you doing here?” he asks.

“Oh, I… I live here now. On Cornelia Street, by Bleecker.” She points past him, over his shoulder.

“Since when?” he asks. The girl standing next to him gives him a quiet _ahem_. “I’m so sorry,” Leonard says to her. “Maryann, this is Carol Kirk.”

Carol extends her hand. “It’s Carol Marcus, actually. I’m divorced now.” She watches Leonard's face change and tells herself _, it isn’t exactly a lie if it just hasn’t happened yet_. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she says.

Maryann eyes her as they shake hands. “Maryann Rosetti. Charmed, I’m sure,” she says, her New York accent wrenching the last word into two distinct syllables.

Carol nods to Leonard. “You two really must come by some night for dinner, won’t you? It would be so nice to catch up and get to know your new friend.”

“We’d be delighted,” Maryann says, stepping closer and placing her other hand on Leonard’s arm.

“Oh, _good_ ,” Carol says. “Maybe some Friday night? Let me give you my new number.”

She gets a pencil and paper from her bag. Her hands are trembling, and she writes slowly and deliberately to keep it from showing.

Leonard reaches for the slip of paper with his free hand, Maryann still clinging to his other arm. Carol stands there and hears another distant growl of thunder. 

“Well! Sounds like it’s about to rain so I won’t keep you any longer,” she says, smiling wider. “I’m _so_ looking forward to seeing you both again soon. Have a good night!”

“See you later,” Maryann says.

“Yeah,” Leonard says. “We’ll… see you later.”

Carol starts walking away, picking up speed with every step. She jogs across the street at the next intersection, even though no cars are coming. The tremor in her hands starts to spread. She reaches Cornelia Street, just as the rain begins to fall. Her whole body is quaking, like someone in the grip of a high fever.

When she gets inside, she goes straight upstairs to her bedroom. She takes off her shoes and climbs into her enormous bed still fully clothed. She curls up and clamps her arms around herself, trying to make the trembling stop.


	34. Leonard

He looks at the crumpled phone number in his hand. He should just throw it away, he thinks.

_Or burn it. Just set a match to it and turn it to ash._

He’d tell Maryann he lost it, and they’d go on as they had before.

And the thing about Maryann, he realized, was that she would just take his word for it. She never challenged him, never offered her own opinion as a counterpoint. 

If he thought about it, he realized she was as different from Carol in every way. She was tall, broad-shouldered, with hair and eyes so dark, they were nearly black. She tasted of cigarettes when they kissed, and when he brushed his hand against her breast, she gasped and slapped his hand away. Maryann was a good girl, a nice girl. She would never sit in his lap and slowly undo the buttons of her dress.

Maryann was nineteen and worked for the phone company. Volunteering with the Catholic Workers was as close as she ever got to rebellion.

“My parents think you’re all bunch of pinkos down here,” she told him, giggling breathlessly.

She came by almost every day for a month to stuff envelopes before he realized that it was him she was coming to see. Even so, it took him two weeks to work up the nerve to ask her to the movies.

Before their date, he dressed in a striped button-down shirt and a tie he hoped matched with it. It was the only tie Felix had given him. He polished his shoes until they gleamed. He stood at the bathroom mirror, undoing and redoing his tie for ages, before he finally went to pick her up.

When he rang the bell, she opened the door and invited him in to meet her family. Her house smelled of food, one aroma on top of another, fresh garlic layered over fried fish with an undercurrent of sour milk. She named off the children that ran around the room, brothers, sisters, cousins, neighborhood kids. He nodded without really hearing anything. Then she brought him to the kitchen to meet her mother.

“Ma,” Maryann said. “This is Leonard. He’s taking me to the movies tonight.”

“How do you do, Mrs. Rosetti,” he said.

The old woman looked him over coolly. “You the one who used to be a priest?” she asked.

Leonard stammered a moment. “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “I was.”

She nodded. “Don’t keep my daughter out past ten,” she said.

“No, ma’am,” he said. “I won’t.”

She turned back to her daughter, jabbing her finger and addressing her at length in Italian. 

“ _Ma-a-a-a_ ,” Maryann whined.

As they walked to the movie theater, Leonard wondered what Maryann’s mother had said. He caught a few words here and there, but only the ones closest to their Latin roots, not enough to make sense of it all. Instead, he asked Maryann about herself, what kind of movies she liked.

“What sort of movies do you like?” she asked.

He told her he liked Westerns, and her mouth puckered for just a second.

“I like those too,” she said.

Halfway through _Rio Bravo_ , he dared to put his arm around her. She nestled just a bit nearer to him, her eyes never leaving the screen. It was nice, he thought, just to be close to another human being.

When she rested her head against his shoulder, he realized she smelled of something familiar, something clean and sharp, which he couldn’t place. After the movie, he took her home and kissed her on the cheek. As he walked away, he realized what it was.

_Soap. She smells just like Ivory Soap._

Since then, he took her to the movies a few times. He met some of her friends for dinner and spent two hours watching them chatter and gossip. They all seemed so young.

He always brought Maryann home before ten and kissed her on her doorstep, partly because he wanted to, but partly because he felt she expected it. She put her hands behind her back when they kissed, never put her arms around his neck or grabbed him by the lapels. And it was… _nice_. It was all perfectly nice. He didn’t wonder what she was doing when she was gone. Every time he’d thought too long and hard about a girl, it had ended in misery.

If Maryann had asked him about Carol, even a moment before they ran into her, he would have said he was over her, he had moved on and he was happy. But the instant he saw Carol, he knew that was all a lie.

Carol smiled brightly at him, but she looked unwell, shaky and pale. Over dinner that night, Maryann was telling him a story about her friends, but in his head, he was trying to deduce what was ailing Carol. He took Maryann home early, claiming he was coming down with a cold. When he got back to his room, he pored over the medical textbooks Dr. Kowalski had lent him, deciding Carol had one disease after another.

_Pernicious anemia. Tuberculosis. Cancer._

He began to feel queasy. Finally, he reminded himself he wasn’t her doctor. In fact, he wasn’t anything to her. Not since she told him to find someone else. Not since she ran back to Jim. He slammed the books shut and shoved them off his bed onto the floor.

He lay awake for hours that night, full of bitterness and confusion and worry.

The next morning, he decided he would see her, strictly for diagnostic purposes. If she was divorced, maybe she was all alone now, without anyone to look out for her. He told himself it was the least he could do. As her priest, he’d tried to tend to her soul and failed miserably. He could at least now make sure her physical form was sound and whole.

Now, he looks at her phone number in his hand and decides to call. The phone rings three times.He’s about to hang up when she answers.

“Hi,” he says. “It’s Leonard.”

“Oh…” she sighs. “How are you?” Her voice feels like a stone dropped into a pool of water, sending out ripples under his skin.

“I, um, I’m good, thanks. Listen, about dinner…”

“Please, don’t worry about it,” she says. “It’s my fault, really. I should have considered you’d have something better to do—”

“No, it’s not that,” he says. “I’d like to take you up on it, but just me, alone this time.”

She pauses. “That sounds nice. I’d like to catch up with you. And then maybe next time you can bring Maryann along.”

“I’ll see you Friday,” he says. 

#

He arrives at her house at ten minutes to seven, carrying a bottle of red wine. There are two bells at the front door. He presses the bottom one, hearing it ring somewhere distantly, and waits.

She opens the door, still wearing an apron.

“Am I too early?” he asks.

“No,” she says. “Not at all.” She motions him inside, then shows him into the living room and tells him to make himself at home. He sits on the small couch, and she disappears into the kitchen. She returns with two juice glasses and a corkscrew.

“I haven’t gotten around to buying wine glasses just yet,” she says.

He picks up one of the small glasses, adGailang the oranges painted around the rim. “I’m sure it’ll taste just the same,” he says.

She struggles to open the bottle, and he sees the pink tip of her tongue peep out of the corner of her mouth with the effort. When the cork pops, she gasps and laughs. She fills his glass, then her own. 

“How have you been?” he asks. “Are you still going to school?”

“I am,” she says. “I start up again in the fall. Still quite a while to go before I’m finished.” He watches her take a big swallow, and then set her glass down. “What about you? What’ve you been doing lately?” 

“Oh, not a lot, really. I still live at the Catholic Worker house and work for them,” he says. “I, uh… I applied to go to medical school…”

“Really? Where?” She turns to face him, tucking her legs under her. “Did you get in? You must have.”

He nods, suddenly bashful. “Yeah, I… I did. I had to pass about a dozen different exams, but I got in, over at N.Y.U. I start in the fall.”

“You must be so thrilled,” she says, beaming, as if she was the one who’d received the acceptance letter. “Doctor McCoy… it has such a nice ring to it. I just know you’re going to be great at it.”

She reaches out and squeezes his hand, and he sees her glance down, as if she’s just realized what she’s done. Slowly, she takes her hand away and presses it between her knees, keeping it away from him.

She reaches for her glass with her other hand, and he notes her hands seem steady, her cheeks are pink. She looks far better than she did before, and he wonders if all his worry was for nothing.

“So… you live here now?” he asks.

She looks around the sparsely furnished room and nods. “I’m not quite done settling in, but it’s getting there.”

“No roommates or anything?” he asks. “Just you on your own?”

“No Jim, you mean?” she says, gently.

“It seemed impolite to ask,” he says.

“I wasn’t entirely honest with you before,” she says. “We’re not divorced. Not yet, anyway. Not legally. Jim’s dragging his feet on this and I don’t see why. It’s… over.” She shrugs. “I think it had been over for some time, but I just couldn’t bring myself to admit it.”

She swirls the wine in her glass.

“I just need to check on the food,” she says. “I’ll be right back.”

She walks to the kitchen and after a moment, he follows her. She stands at the stove, stirring a pot, her back to him.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you,” he says. “I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“No… I don’t mind talking about it,” she says. “It’s funny, no one ever wants to talk to me about it. Not my friends, certainly not my family. But if they do, it’s like they expect me to be sad about it. And I am. Or at least, I was. But mostly though, I’m… happy.”

He crosses the kitchen and stands a step behind her, close enough to smell her perfume. _White flowers with glossy green leaves_. He wants to tell her how glad he is that she’s happy, but the words stick in his throat.

“What’re you making?” he asks.

“Spaghetti sauce. The man at the butcher shop gave me his mother’s recipe. Here,” she says. “Try it.”

She gets a tablespoon from a nearby drawer and dips it into the pot. She blows on it before handing it to him. The sauce is rich and pungent, flecked with herbs.

“Is it any good?” she asks.

For a second, he sees the woman who took him to St. Patrick’s Cathedral, the same look in her eyes, asking if he liked it.

“It’s very good,” he says, giving back the spoon.

“Well, I’m sure you’re used to much better these days,” she says. “Now that you’re with an Italian girl.” She switches off the burner, puts the spoon into the sink, and rinses her fingers under the tap.

“So, tell me,” she says, drying her hands on a towel. “How did you meet Maryann?”

He flinches at the word, something unwholesome in hearing her name from Carol’s mouth.

“Do you really want to know?” he asks.

“Of course. Why else would I ask?” She busies herself, brushing at the front of her apron, unable to look him in the eye.

He scoffs quietly. “My God, you’re a terrible liar, has anyone ever told you that?”

He watches her face go red.

“Carol… why am I here?” he asks.

“I-I don’t know what you mean,” she says.

“I mean, why am I here with you right now? I _did_ what you asked. In fact, I did exactly what you asked. You told me to go find someone, and I did. I went and met a perfectly nice girl and you just… you snap your fingers and I come running, is that it?”

She gasps. “I most certainly did _not_ just snap my fingers. I invited you—I invited both of you—here because I… I thought we could maybe be friends.”

“We can’t!” He laughs bitterly. “Isn’t that obvious by now? We tried being friends and look what happened to us. I left the church for you, Carol.”

“I never asked you to!” she says.

“I know you didn’t ask. But, I did it for you, because I… I wanted to be with you. And then you just went back. To him.”

“You didn’t tell me that. You didn’t tell me any of that! You… you handed me a note and then you just vanished, ‘on a leave of absence,’ they said, no forwarding address.” She shrugs wildly. “So I… I thought you changed your mind. What else was I supposed to think?” She unties the apron and throws it onto the counter. “I _waited_ to hear from you, Leonard. For weeks. Eventually, I thought… maybe you only ever really wanted me because you couldn’t have me. And then once you could… you just, you realized you _didn't_ …” She shakes her head, unable to continue.

“No,” he says. “I never thought that, not once, not _ever_.”

He takes her face in his hands and kisses her. When she puts her arms around his waist and kisses him back fervently, he feels like he’s suddenly remembered how to be alive.

“It was you I wanted,” he tells her.

She chokes back a sob, gripping the front of his shirt in her hands. She kisses him again and again and he backs her up against the kitchen sink, pressing against her. She moves her hands to his hips and holds him close.

“It was always you,” he says. He puts his arms around her, tucking her head under his chin. They stand there in the silent kitchen, and she runs her hands up and down the length of his back.

“Will you… come upstairs with me?” She looks up at him, waiting for an answer. 

He nods.

She takes him by the hand, pulling him through the nearly empty rooms and up the stairs, into a room at the end of the hall.

_Her room,_ he realizes. He looks at her huge bed, with its acres of rumpled white linens.

She sits down on the edge of the mattress, waiting for him. He sits next to her and kisses her mouth, her neck. Her sighing is the sweetest sound he’s ever heard. She takes his wrists in her hands and undoes the buttons of his cuffs before unbuttoning the front of his shirt. She pushes it off his shoulders and tosses it aside. She starts to pull up his undershirt and when he reaches for the little lamp by the bedside, to turn it off, she holds him back.

“Please, not yet,” she whispers. “I want to see you.”

He wrestles with his self-consciousness a moment and then tugs the t-shirt off, over his head.

“ _Freckles_ ,” she gasps. She runs her hands over his naked shoulders, kissing his speckled skin, his collarbone, the hollow of his throat.

“They’re beautiful,” she says, and he finds himself flushing with pleasure that she could find him so exquisite.

He unzips her dress and she wriggles free of it, kicking it to the floor. She turns her back to him and he studies the clasp of her brassiere for a moment before unhooking it, kissing her back and her shoulders. She slips the bra off her arms and sets it aside before turning around. She hides her breasts with one arm, hesitating, and then slowly uncovers herself before him.

He wishes he knew the words to describe to her how beautiful she is, how beautiful she’s always been to him, but all he can do is kiss her. He brushes his thumb against the soft underside of her breast and over the firm nipple, delighting in the way it makes her gasp.

He fiddles with the clasp of her stocking a moment, then slips off the bed to kneel at her feet. She shows him by undoing one of the little clamps herself and then lets him undo the others. He rolls the filmy fabric down her leg and off the end of her foot. He slips his hand around her ankle, the bones delicate in his grasp, and he kisses the top of her knee and up along her thigh, his lips brushing against the invisibly fine hairs there. He pulls the stocking from her other leg and kisses her other thigh. She strokes his hair, his cheek.

He runs his thumbs over the edge of her panties at the top of her leg, then hooks his fingers under the waistband. She lays back on the bed and raises her hips, allowing him to slide the last off her clothes off. She keeps her thighs pressed together and he kisses along the seam of where they meet, up to the soft thatch of hair between her legs. He strokes her gently, eager to learn just what she likes. She whimpers, a handful of bedsheets knotted in her fist. He touches her hand and she weaves her fingers between his, holding on tight. He goes on caressing her, kissing her hips and soft expanse of her stomach.

Slowly, her legs relax and her thighs part before him. He runs a fingertip down through her dark curling hair and over her wet skin just beneath. She squirms under his touch, her breath ragged. He nudges his way further between her thighs, opening her up to him, until he can see her folds, slick and cherry red.

He dips his head and kisses her there, tongue flickering out to taste her, and it’s just as he imagined, like sea air, salty and sharp. She arches her back and he can hear her panting for air. He weaves the tip of his tongue over her skin, then laps at her broadly, and she makes short, keen noises of pleasure: _oh, oh!_ His knees ache and his cock is throbbing but he could go on forever just to keep her making that sound.

She writhes under his mouth, a cadence that quickly grows faster. He circles her clit with his tongue, matching the pace of her hips, until suddenly she cries out, squeezing his hand hard enough to break, and wrenches herself away from him.

She pulls him by the hand, urging him closer. He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and climbs up on the bed hesitantly. She must’ve stopped him because he was awful, just no good at it at all, he thinks. When he lies next to her, she wraps her arms around him, trembling from head to toe. She kisses his wet mouth, then tries to speak, still shaking and gasping for air.

“I haven’t—no one, no one’s ever—” she whispers, and then shudders as another tremor rolls through her.

She grabs roughly at his pants, palming his hard cock through them.

“Now,” she says. “Oh God, now, please, now.”

She yanks at the button of his pants and he undoes it quickly, roughly shoving his clothes aside. She pulls him onto her, between her thighs, and she puts her hand between their bodies, guiding him into her. He sinks into her, up to the hilt, and she feels so good, stretched taut around his cock.

For a moment, he’s afraid if he moves at all, it will be over immediately, but she rocks her hips against him, urging him. He draws his hips back and thrusts into her, tentatively at first, before finding the perfect rhythm. She clings to him, nipping at his earlobe, her nails digging into his back, and her ferocity thrills him, inciting him to drive into her harder, faster. She hitches her thighs up over his hips, wrapping her legs around his waist, allowing him even deeper inside her. He can feel heat pooling in his belly, a sense of unraveling, of coming undone. She presses her forehead to his shoulder, damp with sweat.

“Just like that,” she pleads. “Just like that, just… ah!”

Her ecstatic cries are too much for him to bear and he groans as he comes, feeling himself rushing out, into her. He slows and then stops and she shifts under him, stretching her legs and running her fingers down his spine. They lay still for a moment until he can bear his weight on his arms no longer.

He rolls next to her, side by side on the vast white bed. She slips her hand into his.

And everything, the entire universe, is warm and safe and right.

Nothing, he thought, nothing felt wrong about what they did. If anything, this act, this feeling… how could it be anything other than the perfection of God, part of His plan, proof of His love for all creation. He doesn’t find any shame, any sin to bear. He feels himself closer to God than ever before, and he closes his eyes to allow this feeling of faith and acceptance to completely surround him.

_Pleni sunt caeli et terra maiestatis gloriae tuae_ , he thinks to himself _. Full are the heavens and the earth of the majesty of Thy glory._

He holds her closer to him, kissing her temple and the crown of her head. She lays against him and her fingers splay over his ribs, across his chest.

“Oh, I _love_ you.” She sighs the words almost to herself. And he can feel it, like the warmth of her body, a love emanating from her, sinking into his skin. For perhaps the first time in his life, he knows, without any hesitation or doubt, he is loved.

“I love you, too.” He says it quietly, afraid of choking up. “I love you, too.”

#

He wakes up, suddenly realizing that they’d both drifted off. He gingerly takes her hand off his chest and feels around on the floor for his shorts and undershirt. He slips them on, then sneaks out of the room and down the stairs. He pours himself a glass of water in the kitchen and finds the bathroom. The pipes make a terrible racket when he pulls the chain on the toilet tank and he cringes, hoping he hasn’t woken her.

He creeps back into her bedroom and finds her awake, knees drawn up to her chest, wrapped in the sheets.

“I was afraid you’d gone home,” she says.

“Of course not,” he says. “I wouldn’t dream of it.” He sits next to her and she climbs halfway into his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck and hiding her face there.

“I wouldn’t go without saying goodbye,” he says, stroking her bare back.

He feels her shaking her head. “It feels like I’ve been saying goodbye to you since the day we met,” she says. “I don’t want to say goodbye to you ever again.”

“You won’t have to. Not like that, not like before,” he says gently. “But I will need to go home eventually.”

“Or…” she says, leaning back to look at him. “You could just _stay_.” She shrugs, as if to say, _this is the obvious solution._

“Stay? And just… what? Live here with you?”

“Yes. Well… sort of. Not _here_ here,” she says, looking around the room. “But there’s an entire apartment upstairs. Furnished and everything. It’s yours, if you want it.”

“Oh, Carol, I couldn’t ask you to do that…”

“Please, I’d rather have you living there than some stranger. And as far as anyone would know, we’d be nothing more than landlady and tenant.” She rakes her fingers through his hair. “Of course, I’d keep a spare key to your door… just in case I need to check up on you in the middle of the night.”

Her grin is so shameless, he can only laugh.

“So, I’d be your kept woman, is that it?” he asks.

“Something like that,” she says, and kisses him. Then she sighs and runs her fingers over his mouth.

“Will you… come back to bed with me now?” she asks.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says.

He strips off his shirt again and climbs under the blankets. She wriggles back to meet him in the middle. Her back is warm against his chest, and her feet tangle with his.

“I like your bed,” he whispers.

“I like it too,” she says. “Especially right now.”

He thinks about how good it would be like to spend every night like this. He wants to marry her, immediately, the instant she’s free to do so. She laces her fingers in his and squeezes, as if she knows what he is thinking.

He wants a life with her, a real life, forever, just the two of them. Already, he can feel his old life ebbing away. No more icy mornings in his little room. No more communal meals at tables full of strangers. No more…

_Maryann_.

He groans quietly before he can stop himself.

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

He shakes his head. “It’s okay, it’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.” He lays on his back and stares at the ceiling.

She rolls over, up onto one elbow, and looks at him.

“Please,” she says, laying a hand on his arm. “Tell me what it is.”

“It’s just… we’ve gone and upset the apple cart again, haven’t we? Only this time, I need to go back to Maryann and tell her it’s over, and I don’t know how she’ll react. I don’t know whether she’ll start crying or screaming at me or what but I… well, I’m pretty goddamn unhappy just thinking about it.”

“Good,” she says.

“ _Good_?” Even in the dark, he can see her face is serious.

“I don’t want us to have any secrets from each other,” she says. “If you’re unhappy, I want to know. If you’re hurt or miserable… if you hate me, I still want to know.”

“Never,” he says, pulling her in for a kiss. “I will always tell you the truth, but I will never hate you.”

She settles back into his arms again, draping her leg across him. He caresses her thigh as it lays against his and he knows she’s all that really matters. Maryann could call him anything, every name in the book, and it wouldn’t mean a damn to him.

“Will you always tell me the truth, too?” he asks.

He feels her nod and say _mmm-hmm_. She lays her hand just over his heart.

“Did you really want Maryann to come to dinner?”

“I only wanted to see you again,” she says, playing with the hair on his chest. “I thought maybe I could get used to it but every time I thought about her… holding your arm like that, like she owned you…” She shudders. “I just wanted to _die_.”

He laughs quietly. 

“Darlin’, you will never see another girl on my arm ever again,” he says. “I promise you that. C’mere.”

He coaxes her on top of him, running his hands over her hips and her breasts, mapping every curve and plane of her body.

This time, they make love slowly, less frantically. They confess to each other, all their most secret thoughts, unspoken until now.

_I’ve always loved you. I loved you the first moment you touched me. I thought about you every night. I never stopped loving you, not even for a minute. Oh God, I missed you, you feel so good. I love you, I love you so much._

#

He wakes again, just as the first light of day starts to fill the room. From somewhere deep in the recesses of his memory, a fragment of a sentence comes to mind. It’s a piece of something, but he’s half-asleep and can’t remember where he read it or who wrote it. But he knows that he finally understands what it means.

He props his head on his arm, just enough to see her face. She’s fast asleep, but he feels he must say the words aloud to her.

“You…” he whispers into her sleeping ear. “You are _my rescue and my shelter and my home_.”


	35. Jim

“Don't talk,” Gaila says.

“I didn't,” he says.

“But you want to. I can tell.”

“No, I didn't, I don’t.”

He knew by now not to talk to her while she painted. And he loved to watch her paint, especially when she started a new one. He would angle her couch so he could see her face as she eyed the canvas, examining it. She would make a few hesitant strokes at first, barely sketching what she wanted, and then her brushstrokes would grow bolder, more assured.

Lately, he showed up to Chekov’s house parties mostly to see her. If she wasn’t there, he’d ask around, trying to find out if she was coming by or if she was upstairs painting.

She refused to answer the door when she painted, but sometimes, after he’d been drinking for a while, he’d go upstairs to her door anyway. The light would spill out from under her door and he would hear her playing records, something grand and symphonic with lots of strings. Once, he fell asleep there at her door, listening.

When she did come to one of the parties, they sat by themselves in some corner, whispering in each other’s ears. He knew what it looked like, like he was sweet talking her into going upstairs.

“What about that one?” she said to him, pointing to a young guy with a high pompadour and his hands on his hips.

Jim shook his head. “Too… swishy,” he said.

“Hmm,” she said. “I see. You like men to be _men_. I can understand that.”

He cringed. He never contemplated what he liked or didn’t like, and had certainly never said it aloud to anyone.

“Yeah,” he said. “I guess so.”

She pointed to a full-bosomed blonde next. “Say, how about her?”

He shook his head. “I think I’m off blondes for a while.”

“Poor you,” she said, rubbing his hand briskly between hers.

#

After Carol walked out on him that Saturday morning, after he finished calling her every despicable thing he could think of, he went inside and collapsed into bed, fully dressed. 

When he woke, he spent a few minutes in ignorant bliss before he remembered everything. He rose from bed, went to the liquor cabinet, and began drinking. He turned the television on but didn't watch. Instead, he wandered from the bedroom to the living room to the kitchen.

_How can she be gone when everything here belongs to her?_ he thought.

He stretched out on the couch with the TV still on, nodded off, and woke up close to sober. He repeated the cycle all weekend long: wake up, remember, drink to forget, sleep.

_Gaila_ , he kept reminding himself. _Have to pay back Gaila. Can't forget_.

He went to the bank first thing Monday morning. Only when the bank teller recoiled did he realize how he must look, with three days of stubble and a half-healed bruise on his head. He tried to charm the teller, but she just handed him the cash without so much as a smile.

Even so, he went straight to Gaila’s door. He couldn’t shake the idea that if he didn’t pay her back, she’d be angry with him, maybe stop speaking to him forever. He came to the building she shared with Chekov and rang the top bell. He waited a minute, and then rang again.

She opened the door halfway and peered out at him.

“Jim?” she asked. “What is it now?” Her hair was loose, her face puffy from sleep.

“Here,” he said, handing her a bank envelope. “I just wanted to pay you back for Friday.”

She took the money from him and nodded. “You look awful,” she said.

“I, uh…” He stopped and ran a hand through his hair. “I’ve had a rough couple of days.”

She opened the door wider and waved him in. “Come on,” she said. “Upstairs.”

In her apartment, a huge canvas sat on an easel. There were a few brushstrokes on it but he couldn’t tell what she was creating, something like a face but not quite. Gaila told him to make himself comfortable then disappeared into the kitchen. He heard cupboards opening and closing, then the keen whistle of a kettle.

She returned with jewel-colored glasses filled with hot tea, and a plate of sugar cubes. She put the tray on the table and sat in a chair across from him. He didn’t have the nerve to tell her that he hated tea, that he’d always hated it. He drank it to please Carol when they first met but found it terrible.

“Well?” she asked. “What is it this time?” She popped a sugar cube into her mouth and sipped the tea.

He picked up the other glass and set it down in front of him. “My wife left,” he said.

“What, again?” she asked.

He nodded. “I think for good. She was waiting for me when I got home. Had a suitcase and everything.”

“She came back before, didn’t she?” Gaila asked. “Maybe she’ll come back again.”

“When she came back, she was… different. Like a piece of her was gone,” he said. He could still hear her calm voice in his head. _I’m done. It’s over. It’ll be better this way._ “I don’t… I don’t think she’s coming back.” He picked up the glass and drank, the tea strong and bitter.

“Did she say she wanted a divorce?” she asked.

“No, but… she slapped me. She’s never done that before.” He watched Gaila put another sugar cube in her mouth before she took another sip. “Why do you not just put the sugar _in_ the tea?” he asked.

“What? Oh… we all do it this way, everyone in my family.” She crunched the last of her sugar cube, and then handed him one. “Hold it between your teeth, and then drink.”

The hot tea swirled around the lump of sugar in his mouth, mixing bitter into sweet. He swallowed.

“It’s… not so bad,” he said.

She smirked. “I gotta get ready to go to work soon,” she said. “But you’re welcome to stay until then.”

“Thanks,” he said. She patted his knee and walked into the next room. “You sell anything else lately?” he called.

“No, hardly anything besides the one I bailed you out with,” she said. “God, I’d love to finally sell enough to quit this lousy waitress job. Maybe even do some traveling.”

“Where would you want to go?” he asked.

She returned, wearing a bathrobe, her hair piled on top of her head. “I don’t even care. Just… anywhere. There’s more tea in the pot out in the kitchen, if you want it,” she said. 

She shut herself in the bathroom, and a moment later, he heard the water running. He rested his head against the back of her couch, listening to the sound.

When he woke up, he found a sketch she’d made, next to his tea glass. It was of him, asleep. The drawing of the couch around him was unfinished, but her pencil lines looked quick and sure, the shadows soft around his sleeping face. Underneath, a note: _Lock the door when you leave. P.S. You really snore_.

He made his way home, back uptown. He called his office and did his best to make himself sound sympathetic, claiming he had food poisoning. He got into the shower for the first time in days, letting the scalding water unkink every muscle.

He shaved and dressed. Then he went into the kitchen, and just stood there. He knew he was hungry, but he was unsure what he wanted, or what he should do about it. He stood there, opening and closing the cupboards until he gave up and went to the diner on Broadway.

In the weeks that followed, he found himself stymied by decisions at every turn. _Watch television or go to bed? The red tie or blue? Go to a bar or go home?_ He felt like he was waiting for something, like counting the seconds between the lightning and the thunder.

One day at work, the boss’s secretary called. The boss wanted to see Jim in his office.

_This is it,_ he thought _. I’m done._

“Thank you, Martha,” he said. “Let him know I’ll be right there.”

He thought of Matthews, how he’d gotten canned for getting arrested. He stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray on his desk and brushed a bit of ash from his sleeve.

He tapped on the boss’s door and he fumbled with the knob as he opened it, his hand damp.

“You wanted to see me, Mr. Vogel?” he asked.

“Kirk, yes, have a seat,” Vogel said. “There’s something I wanted to speak to you about. I’m... afraid, well, it’s not good news, son.”

“Oh?” he asked, aiming to sound naive, as if that would save him. “What’s happened?”

Vogel tented his fingers. Jim felt panic pricking over his scalp, running down his spine.

“Well, to put it plainly… we’re giving Matthews’s position to someone else.”

At the sound of Matthews’s name, Jim froze.

Vogel kept talking, until slowly what he was saying began to sink in.

_Someone with more experience… keep up the good work… maybe next time…_

“Thank you,” Jim said. “Thank you, sir.” He pumped Vogel’s hand enthusiastically and walked away, grinning.

He shut the door to his own office and dropped into his chair, spinning it like a kid. He rolled up his shirt sleeves. He wished his office had a window that opened, suddenly desperate for a breath of the cold March air outside.

He picked up a pencil, about to get back to work, when he saw a pink message slip on his desk from one of the secretaries, with _While You Were Out_ in fat letters across the top.

_Mr. Joseph Ellis, Esq._

_of Ellis & Associates _

_— TELEPHONED_

_— PLEASE CALL_

_regarding: Mrs. Carol Kirk_

_MU 3-6391_

 

He stared at it a moment.

_Oh_ , he thought. _That’s the shoe that had been waiting to drop_.

He crumpled the note and tossed it toward the basket, watching it hit the rim and land on the floor. Then he turned and went back to work.

Another slip appeared a week later, one afternoon when he came back from lunch. He told the secretary outside his office to always take a message anytime this Mr. Joseph Ellis. Esq. called.

_Don't ever put him through to me, okay?_ he said. _Thanks, Caroline._ _You're the best, doll._

As spring turned into summer, the slips showed up more and more often: once a week, then twice a week, then every day.

“Why don't you just call him back?” Caroline asked gently.

_Why don't you mind your own goddamned business?_ he thought.

“I'll get around to it,” he said, forcing a smile. “Eventually.”

He spent the Fourth of July at Christopher’s house in Queens, claiming Carol was away, visiting her family. He lit sparklers and bottle rockets for the kids and turned down Christopher’s offer of a beer, too afraid it would loosen his tongue. When it came time for him to head home, Christopher put a hand on his shoulder.

“You ever need anything, son, you can call me,” Christopher said. “You know that, right?”

For a moment, Jim was the same kid again: alone and friendless. He wanted to tell Christopher everything.

“Yes, sir,” he said. “I know.”

One humid August morning, Jim arrived at work sweaty and irritable. He grunted a hello to Caroline, who leapt up from her desk upon seeing him.

“Mr. Kirk, there's a man from Ellis and Associates in your office,” she said. “I told him he should wait out here but he—”

He yanked the door open and found a man on his office sofa, a briefcase perched in his lap. The man didn't get up when Jim entered.

“Mr. Kirk, I presume.” The man looked cool and crisp despite the steaming day. Jim hated him for it.

“That’s me. Something I can do for you?”

The man laid his briefcase on the table and snapped it open. “I assume you know why I'm here. I represent Carol Marcus.”

Jim scoffed. “Carol’s been paying you to call my office every day?”

“Admiral Marcus has retained our services,” the man said. “Pursuant to his wishes, he’s authorized our firm to present you with the following offer.” He handed Jim several pages, fastened neatly with a staple. “In brief, Admiral Marcus will furnish you with two round-trip airline tickets to Mexico City, where you will obtain a divorce from his daughter. In exchange, she will not seek alimony.”

Jim tossed the contract onto the table. “Alimony? From _me_? This is a joke, right?”

“As I just said, she will not be seeking alimony… provided you accept the Admiral’s offer.”

“She’s blackmailing me?” Jim said. “Is that it? Divorce her or I’ll have to pay up?”

The lawyer straightened the papers Jim tossed, turning them back towards him. “Mr. Kirk, you appear to be a reasonable man,” he said. “Let me assure you, if you prolong this any further, the Admiral has made it clear we are authorized to publicly disclose any... _misdeeds_ you committed during your marriage which our firm has subsequently uncovered.”

He looked Jim in the eye, his face expressionless. “ _Any_ misdeeds,” he repeated.

_You son of a bitch_ , Jim thought.

“You have a week to accept this offer.” The man clicked the briefcase shut and got to his feet. “My card,” he said. Jim stuck it into his pocket without a glance.

“Why two tickets?” Jim asked. “To Mexico. Why would I need two tickets?”

“Ah. The Admiral thought you would be more likely to accept if you could… take _a friend_ as your traveling companion,” the lawyer said. “Although his own choice of words was somewhat more colorful.”

The man smiled a thin, lipless smile that reminded Jim of a snake. He felt his fists clench.

“One week, Mr. Kirk,” the man said. “Good day.”

#

Now, here, he watches Gaila work.

As she paints, the lines of her face grow softer. Her eyes become heavily lidded and her lips part. He thinks she looks as if someone’s making love to her. Not that he knew what she looked like in those moments. She knew all about him. Far too much about him, he thought, for him to ever make a pass at her.

She did say she wanted to travel, though.

“Dammit, you’re driving me nuts,” she says. “Say whatever it is you have to say or get out. You’re wrecking my concentration.”

“I’m sorry,” he says. “It’s nothing, really. I can wait until you’re finished.”


	36. Carol

When she sees Leonard standing at the edge of the water, looking around, she waves him over. He drops down on the blanket next to her.

“How was your swim?” she asks.

“Freezing,” he says.

He puts an arm around her, icy and wet, and she gasps. He kisses her cheek, and then her mouth. His lips are cold too, but his tongue is warm as it swipes against her bottom lip.

She brushes back the wet hair plastered to his forehead.

“Anything left to eat?” he asks.

She peeks into the paper bag. “Liverwurst on rye and… an orange.”

“Do you want either?”

She shakes her head. “All yours.” She runs her fingers over the back of his neck as he eats.

“I think you’ve gotten even more freckles just from being here today,” she says, kissing his shoulder.

He laughs. “Why do you like them so much?”

“I don’t know,” she says. “Mostly because they’re attached to you, I think.” She kisses his freckles again then stretches out under the beach umbrella. “As soon as you’re dry, we should probably head home.”

He tosses his sandwich crust to an especially bold seagull, then lays on his stomach beside her, watching her.

“Are you sure you don’t mind me and Ruth taking over your apartment for a few days?” he asks. “She could always stay in a hotel.”

“No, she’s your family, Len,” she says. “I don’t mind staying in your place upstairs. Do you think she’ll be happy in the guest bedroom?”

“I'm sure she will,” he says. “It’ll be strange to sleep in your bed without you, though.”

“It’s only for a couple nights,” she says, rolling towards him. “And after that, it’ll be our bed.”

He grins, his face half-hidden in the crook of his arm.

“What time do we pick her up?” he asks.

“Nine, tomorrow morning. How long does it take from Atlanta, anyway?”

“About a day and a half.” He pauses, seemingly deep in thought. “Huh,” he says.

“What is it?” she asks.

“Well,” he says. “I just realized it was almost exactly a year ago that I was on that very train, coming back to New York.”

For a moment, she thinks he must be wrong: it couldn’t only be a year.

“You know, I almost stayed down there,” he says. He lays on his back, his eyes focusing on something off the distance. “Ruth asked me if I would stay.”

She thinks about how different her life would have been if he’d never come back. Or really, how her life would have been the same, grinding her down, maybe for years on end, until she was old and used up.

“I’m glad you came back,” she says.

“How could I not?” he asks. “I was crazy about you.” He picks up her hand and kisses the underside of her wrist. “Still am. You about ready to go home?”

She nods. “Yes… no, wait. First, I need a candy apple from Williams.”

“You just had one!” he laughs.

“No, that was a _toffee_ apple. Now I want a _candy_ apple.”

“My God, woman, you’ll make yourself sick…” he says. “Are you looking to repeat the Tilt-A-Whirl incident?”

She groans. “That was different,” she says. “That was the ride’s doing, not me.”

He stands up and holds out his hand, to help her up off the sand.

“Let it never be said that I, Leonard McCoy, ever denied the most beautiful girl in the world a single thing her heart desired.” He wraps his arm around her and kisses her cheek noisily, making her laugh. “I’ll buy you a dozen, if that’s what you really want.”

“Just one will do for now,” she says. “And maybe a hot dog.”

She intends to eat the candy apple on the subway ride home. Instead, she falls asleep against his shoulder, before Coney Island even vanishes from sight.

#

“Wake up, darlin’,” he says. “We’re almost home.”

She wakes and looks out the window, but they’re somewhere underground now.

“Really? I slept the whole way?” she asks.

He touches her forehead, her cheek. “D’you feel okay?” he asks.

“Yes, I’m fine. I was just sleepy, I guess,” she says. “Too much sun.”

He nods, looking unconvinced. “Well,” he says. “Let's be sure to get you to bed early tonight.”

“That sounds… promising.” She watches him try to stifle a grin.

“We’ll see about that,” he says.

She leans closer to whisper in his ear. “Don’t be such a tease,” she says, then kisses his flushed cheek.

“Come on,” he says. “This is our stop.”

#

They each head into their own apartments when they get home. She strips off her sandy bathing suit and gets in the shower. The cool water feels marvelous on her sunbaked skin. She watches the soap suds flow over the soft swell of her breasts before swirling down the drain. 

She puts on a simple sundress and walks around the house in her bare feet, checking once again that everything’s exactly right for Ruth’s arrival.

_Clean sheets on the guest bed. New towels. Fresh flowers. Oh, I hope she likes everything,_ Carol thinks. _I hope she likes… me_.

Leonard knocks on the door before letting himself in.

“I found that box of photos,” he says. “I was thinking Ruth and I could… hey, what’s wrong?”

“What if she _doesn’t_ _like me_ , Len?” she cries.

He puts the box down and takes her into his arms.

“What? Carol… of course she’ll like you. She’s going to _love_ you,” he says. “Because _I_ love you.”

“But… what if she thinks you’re only marrying me now because you have to?” she asks.

“Darlin’, my cousin Ruthie has seen plenty of shotgun weddings,” he says. “Including her own. The way she tells it, Earl was going to run off and join the Foreign Legion if her daddy hadn’t stopped him, so don’t you worry about that.”

He holds her tight and strokes her hair until she feels her fears slip away.

“You know I would have married you anyway, right?” he says, softly. “No matter what, as soon we could have.”

She nods. “I guess we should just be glad he signed those papers as quickly as he did before it got any later,” she says, running her hands over the warm expanse of his back. “Can you tell yet, just by looking at me?” she asks.

He holds her out at arm’s length, tilting his head to one side and then the other. He turns her around and holds her close, her back to his chest.

“Not a bit,” he says. “Still our secret.” He slides a protective hand over her belly. “But if you keep putting away candy apples like that, people will start to catch on.”

She slaps his hands away. “Just show me the photos you found,” she says.

They sit on the sofa together and he spills the black-and-white snapshots out onto the coffee table. He shuffles through them a moment before finding one of the newer, color photos.

“Here,” he says. “Here’s Ruth, the last time I saw her.”

He hands her the picture. A small gray-haired woman in a brown dress squints at the camera. She stands next to Leonard, dressed all in black, with his Roman collar.

“Oh,” she sighs. “I almost forgot how good you looked in that.”

“ _Too_ good, apparently,” he says. “You couldn’t keep your hands off me.”

She starts to protest then decides she’s not going to take his bait. She shrugs comically.

“What can I say?” she asks. “When I see something I want, I grab it. With both hands.”

He opens and closes his mouth. Then he starts to laugh. She laughs too, just at the sight of him so happy. She never tires of it. Every time is its own small victory.

“You, Mrs.-soon-to-be-Carol-McCoy, are truly something else,” he says.

“Ooh,” she says, laying her head in his lap. “Say it again.”

“Mrs. Carol McCoy,” he says. “Mr. and Mrs. Leonard McCoy.”

“ _Doctor_ and Mrs.,” she corrects him. “Or maybe _Doctor and Doctor._ ”

“You planning on med school yourself?” he asks.

“No, but… once my Master’s is finished up, I could pursue a Ph.D.”

He pauses. “You’re going to do all that school and take care of a baby besides?” he asks gently.

“I… don’t know. I’ve only thought about it. But I could, maybe…” Her chest starts to tighten and her hands grow damp.

“Well,” he says, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “I think you’re about the smartest person I’ve ever met. If anyone can do it, it’s you.” 

She nods and kisses his knuckles as they graze her cheek. 

“Oh, say. Speaking of school,” he says. “Did I tell you Ruth’s coming with the check from my mother’s account? She says she’s too afraid to mail it so she’s bringing it to me herself.”

“You didn’t mention it,” she says. “The insurance money, from your father?”

“I just can’t believe my mother held onto it for all those years.” He shakes his head. “Maybe she thought they’d come back and then she’d have to give all the money back to the insurance company… that’s what Ruth thinks, anyway.”

“Maybe she could just never bring herself to spend it, because it would mean they were really gone.” She sits up slowly and rests her head on his shoulder. “Do you remember them at all?”

“My brother, Jack, sure. I was five and he was about twelve. I idolized him. Followed him around everywhere,” he says. “My father, though… he was a salesman. Worked a lot, traveled a lot. For a while after he was gone, I thought he was just… out on the road, only this time he took Jack with him.”

“Oh, sweetheart, I’m so sorry,” she says, her eyes filling with tears.

“Hey now, don’t cry,” he says, fondly. “How can you be so upset? You never even met either of them.”

“I can’t help it. Everything makes me cry now,” she says. “Happy or sad, it doesn’t seem to matter.”

“Well, if you promise to stop crying, I’ll see if I can find you a photo of them.” He pokes through the pictures on the table.

She picks up a handful and sorts through them, strangers with serious faces dressed in age-old fashions. She finds a photo of a dark-haired man standing on a beach, wearing swim trunks. She stares at the familiar face.

“Is this…? This isn’t you, right?” She flips the snapshot over. _Thomas, Myrtle Beach trip._

Leonard looks over her shoulder. “Hey, you found one. That’s him,” he says, pointing. “I have another in my wallet.”

He takes out his billfold, removes the picture, and hands it to her.

“That one’s me,” he says, pointing to a plump, scowling infant. She stares at the photo, first at the man who so closely resembles Leonard, and then at baby Leonard.

In an instant, she sees her own future: she’s the one behind the camera, taking a photo of Leonard and their own baby, the one inside her right now. Her eyes fill with tears.

“Which is it this time?” he asks. “Happy? Or sad?”

She laughs and sniffles. “Happy,” she says. She hands back the snapshot and walks to the bathroom to blow her nose.

“Are you going to be one of those brides who cries through the entire wedding?” he calls after her.

“Probably,” she calls back. “But at least it’s City Hall, so it won’t take long.”

She stands in the doorway and watches as he sifts through the photos.

“Are you disappointed we can’t be married in the church?” she asks.

“The truth?” he asks.

She nods.

“Maybe a little,” he says. “More sad than disappointed, I think. Oh, but Felix, though… _he’s_ disappointed.”

She laughs and walks to the kitchen. “What’s he got to be disappointed about?” She looks through the fridge and Leonard joins her. “Is cold ham alright with you?” she asks. “It’s too hot to cook anything.”

“That sounds fine,” he says. “He’s extremely disappointed that I managed to get you in a family way before we were married.”

“You told?” she gasps.

“He figured it out!” he says, stealing a slice of ham from the plate in her hands. “I said we were getting married and I wanted him to be there, and he guessed immediately.” 

“Mustard?”

“Yes, please,” he says. She hands him the jar. “You should have heard him. Lecturing me about _how could I be so irresponsible_. But after I explained that we were happy about it… I’m telling you, I thought he was going to cry.”

She laughs. Leonard just shakes his head.

“I hope this means we can count on him as a babysitter,” she says. She hands him a plate. “Oh, let’s eat already, I’m famished.”

They eat at the big table with the radio on, listening to the day’s news. Afterward, they continue looking at the old photos. He hands her pictures and tells her who’s in them. Soon, she puts her feet in his lap and he strokes the arch of her foot with his thumb. She closes her eyes and starts to doze off.

“Come on, little girl,” he says, shaking her gently. “Time for bed.”

“Want to join me?” she asks. “Could be your last chance for a night of illicit unmarried romance.”

“Well, if you put it that way…” he says, grinning. “I’ll wash the dishes and be right up.”

While she brushes her teeth, she looks down at her bare toes, pondering whether she’ll become one of those women who get so big she can’t see her own feet. She starts to wonder if Leonard would still find her beautiful then, once her body is distorted out of proportion, but then she smiles to herself, already knowing the answer. 

_But what happens after that?_ she thinks. 

She slips into bed and waits for him. She tries to plan it all out in her head, how they’ll manage to study with a baby crying at all hours. _Babies sleep a lot at first, though, don’t they?_ she thinks. _Maybe we can just take shifts. One of us studies while the other one changes diapers._ She goes on thinking, but her eyelids grow heavy.

She wakes up when he gets into bed beside her. She curls herself around him, committing the feeling to memory for the days to come when she won’t be able to fit snugly against him this way.

“Len?” she says.

He takes her hand and kisses the palm before tucking it close to his chest. “I thought you were asleep,” he says.

“I wanted to ask you something… if this baby is a boy, could we name him Thomas?”

“Like my father?” he asks.

“Mmm-hmm,” she says, closing her eyes again. “I thought you might like it if there was another Thomas McCoy in the world again.”

“I would like that,” he says softly. “Very much.”

She starts to envision another day like today: candy apples and Coney Island, this time with a pink-cheeked baby boy.

_I should buy a new camera_ , she thinks.

“Hey… what if it’s a girl, instead?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” she says. “We’ll figure it out together.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, that's it, everyone. Thank you all for coming (back) along with me. I hope you loved it as much as I loved writing it. XOXOXO


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